


Immortal Quest

by Greysgate



Series: The Immortal Beloved Series [3]
Category: Highlander: The Series, The Pretender
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 08:18:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14613855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greysgate/pseuds/Greysgate
Summary: Jarod, Duncan and Methos have been selected to try to rescue a young Immortal from The Center, but when they discover who she is, they are horrified.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written after the airing of Season One of "The Pretender" and Season Five of "Highlander." 
> 
> Originally published in 1997 under the name Victoria Rivers

"You don't know what you're doing!" the woman cried, jerking against the shackles binding her to the table. Curses in a dozen languages poured from her lips until another contraction seized her, twisting her voice into a shriek of pain and breathless struggle. She fought valiantly against the will of her body, but Nature would not be denied. 

A team of scientists stood nearby, observing dispassionately while the obstetrician and his medical team held her limbs in place and helped the delivery along. 

"The baby's crowning," the doctor announced nervously, touching the top of the tiny, wet head as it emerged into view. "Push, ma'am, push! It won't be long now." 

The mother closed her eyes tightly and screamed, _"Noooooo!"_ Sucking in another breath, she roared, "I won't let you take my baby! You monsters! I'll kill you all first!" 

Lightning danced along the ceiling, snakes of blue flame setting fire to wall charts and medical supplies in cabinets. The pair of scientists dashed toward the doorway, startled by the sudden electrical display. Half of the nurses scattered when a bolt struck one holding onto the mother's leg. Even the obstetrician backed away for a moment as a streak of fire lashed out toward his head. 

"What the hell?" he murmured, and glanced at the men watching him from the doorway. Sweat beaded up on his face and beneath his sterile mask, but he kept his wits about him and grasped a syringe from the nearby instrument tray. He jabbed it into the woman's thigh, emptied it, tossed it onto the floor, and injected her with another. 

"Come on!" he shouted to his team. "Quickly now!" 

The mother began to cry, fighting the effects of the powerful drugs she had been given, and failing. 

"I'm sorry, my baby," she sobbed. She barely felt the scalpel slice her perineum and did not open her eyes to view the innocent little one that was taken from her amidst the tempest. Lightning still curled around the woman, but it began to weaken as consciousness slipped away from her. 

The obstetrician began to make repairs immediately after cutting the cord, but the room was filling with smoke as the fire caught, and those who had stepped away from their duties to attempt to put out the flames now bolted for safety, edging past the men in the doorway. Time was running out, and the room would be engulfed in moments. The doctor took the keys from the pocket of his lab coat and unlatched the shackles, preparing to lift the inert woman and carry her to safety in the wake of those who had already left. 

"Leave her," commanded a familiar voice behind him. 

The obstetrician obeyed and ducked out the door with a guilty, regretful glance over his shoulder at the unconscious woman. 

The observers stood by the doorway for a moment longer. 

"We can't just leave her here," said Dr. Billy. "She'll die! We'll probably have to close off the whole floor to contain the fire." 

"She's served her purpose," said the other man. "And we've got other breeding candidates." 

"Jesus, didn't you see what she did in there?" Billy was incredulous. "We can't lose her, you idiot! I'm getting her out." 

Billy raced into the room, coughing and choking against the smoke, groping for the table. He lifted the woman, struggling to carry her dead weight toward the exit. Out into the corridor he stumbled, and laid her down just long enough to step into an environmental suit hanging outside the lab. It would help him breathe while he carried her out and give him another few seconds of time to save her.

 He glanced up when he heard a call from behind, and found himself staring into the muzzle of a loaded pistol. 

Death came so quickly he never heard the gun go off.

 

 

"If you ever want to go on the road, Jarod, be sure to let me know first," David Copperfield offered warmly as he shook the other man's hand in parting. "I can't believe how fast you picked all this up! And your flair for the dramatic is marvelous. You've got to sell me that _Phoenix Under Glass_ bit you designed, though. That's going to knock the world on its collective ass when it's performed." He grinned. "Having a name like Blackstone doesn't hurt, either. Must be in the genes. Break a leg, pal." 

"Thanks, David," Jarod returned warmly. "And I promise to give Penn and Teller that 'message' from you next time I'm in Vegas." 

"My limo's waiting for you outside," the magician added after a conspiratorial chuckle. "Have a good trip." 

Jarod waved his thanks, picked up the silver Halliburton at his feet and left the soundstage and his new friend without a backward glance. He had learned everything he needed for his next sting and very shortly would be setting up a new identity for himself in another part of the country. He stepped into the back of the car, closed the door and settled the briefcase on the seat beside him as the car took off into traffic, headed for the airport. 

But the driver Jarod couldn't see pulled off the road suddenly, darting into a parking lot where an ambulance sat idling, and he tossed a hissing gas grenade into the passenger cabin. It took effect quickly, and by the time Jarod managed to escape from the back seat he was stumbling and woozy, cursing himself for letting his guard down. The paramedics were on him quickly, holding him down long enough to inject him with something that would finish what the gas had started. 

They loaded him into the ambulance, and he glimpsed a last bit of blue sky and clouds before his eyes closed and he couldn't get them open again.

 

 

Legend had it that Methos was somewhere in the neighborhood of 5,000 years old, but to look at him any observer would guess a modest thirtysomething. His dark hair was close cropped, and his thin face gave the appearance of a lean, hungry sort emphasized by green eyes that moved constantly, focused intently, and missed nothing. 

These days he went by the name of Adam Pierson, though he was considering a new one since his abrupt departure from the Watchers. Identities were harder to change these days, though, so he tended to keep them longer. Addresses, however, were plentiful and Methos changed those frequently; not only because of his early life as a nomad but also because it helped him stay in the shadows. His new digs were more sumptuous than usual simply because it was out of character, a posh place so radically different from his previous shelters that no one searching for him would think to look there. 

The city had few high rises, but the penthouse apartment was one of the highest dollar rents with a spectacular view overlooking both urban sprawl and ocean. Methos had paid the year-in-advance lease with some trepidation, knowing that he might be forced to leave at a moment's notice and not pleased about parting with that much cash at once. Not that he didn't have plenty of reserves stashed here and there all over the world, but he tended toward frugality and simplicity. It made him uncomfortable to live in such a place. The rich attracted attention whether they wished it or not, and attention was the last thing he wanted. 

He had only been in the penthouse for a week when the package arrived. 

It was properly addressed to Adam Pierson, which was not worthy of note in and of itself, except that, when he opened the neatly wrapped box, the elegant little gift that lay inside was meant for a much older persona. A slight frisson of alarm shot through him as he lifted the beautifully carved figurine out of its nest of tissue. As he examined it a frown curved his mouth and he set the tiny agate horseman on the nearest bookshelf and went into his bedroom to pack. 

When the summons came at his door later that night, he greeted the guide stiffly and invited her in for a cup of tea, which he knew she would decline. The gray-haired woman was dressed in a loose cotton tunic and trousers, fairly ordinary clothes except for the brilliant, multicolored scarf wrapped around her head and draped beneath her chin like a wimple. The unusual headdress was fixed near her left ear with a silver pin in the shape of a swimming otter, and Methos noted its presence as confirmation of the guide's identity. 

The old woman smiled with great pleasure as she stepped aside to allow him an exit. "The goddess awaits you eagerly, Old One," she returned with deep respect. 

"She's no more a goddess than I am," he grumbled as he closed the door behind himself. 

"Perhaps not to you," the woman replied proudly. "But to the People of the Otter, she is the center of the universe, and you owe her a great debt." 

"Yes, I remember." His reply was dry and humorless, and he sighed as he fell into step behind her. "Any idea how long it will take to appease her? As I recall, she had the pleasure of my company for nearly a half century last time." 

The guide smiled indulgently at him as she led the way into the elevator. "It is a rare thing for her to enjoy one of her own kind," she returned pleasantly. "And she will not keep you long. She has devised a method for you to repay her kindness, and she tells me the debt was one of your own choosing." 

"Two thousand years ago," he grumbled. "Immortals have such damned long memories." Methos sighed again and took a good look at the woman for the first time, thinking to himself that she had been a real looker when she was young. "So what shall I call you, fair lady?" He mentioned to himself that beauty like this one's was far more than skin deep. But the Otter People were all like that. It was a necessary part of the way they lived, and a special gift of living in the nimbus of a goddess. 

The woman blushed modestly at his remark. "I am Bikana, Old One, your gracious servant." 

"Let's stop with the 'Old One' business, all right? I don't need reminders of how ancient I am, Bikana. I go by Adam Pierson, at the moment." 

"As you wish, Master Pierson." 

With a leaden sigh of frustrated defeat, he decided not to force the issue. Bikana was going to honor him with as much formal dignity as custom would allow, and he was simply going to have to suffer through it for as long as he could. He pressed the button for lobby delivery, and rolled his eyes in silent protest as the doors slid closed on them.

 

 

Duncan MacLeod sauntered into the bar early, tossed a stack of mail onto an empty table and went to the bar to help himself to the bottle of Glenmorangie that the proprietor kept under the counter just for him. He greeted his old friend and official Watcher with a non-committal grunt as Joe Dawson emerged from the storeroom behind the bar, and ambled toward to greet his friend. 

"Afternoon, Mac," said Joe with a yawn. "You coming to the performance tonight? We've got Loreena McKennit coming in honor of St. Pat's." He grinned, immensely pleased with himself. "I can't believe the luck. How I managed to get her to play here, I'll never know." 

The shadow of a smile flickered at the corner of the Scot's mouth as he picked up the first envelope in his stack of mail, glanced at it and tossed it to one side. 

Joe's expression wilted. "You didn't have a hand in that, did you?" 

Duncan shrugged and reached for the next envelope, opened it, and began to read. 

The Watcher sat down heavily in a chair at his friend's table, and sighed in defeat. But before he could form a proper verbal complaint, his eye caught the next envelope in the stack, and imagination quickly shifted gears. The paper was delicate parchment, its face elegantly decorated with calligraphy of a style long since dead. He picked it up against his will, and the fragrance of flowers and herbs wafted to him, making his eyes close dreamily as he inhaled deeply of the feminine scent. 

"Open it," Duncan encouraged, seemingly disinterested in the obviously personal missive. 

"Who's it from?" Joe asked, curiosity making him reach for the envelope almost against his will. "An old friend, no doubt. But which one?" 

"One you'll never find in your records, Joe," claimed the Highlander, his smile barely stifled and gleaming in his eyes. 

Dawson could feel his heart rate pick up, and he mentally traced back and forth through the Scot's abnormally long life history, searching for some clue to the identity of the woman who had sent that intriguing letter. Joe had this man's life story memorized, down to the name of his first love in the early 1600s. His eyes flicked up to study the Scot's expression, and suddenly he knew in a blinding flash of intuition. 

"The missing year," he said quietly. 

Duncan winked at him, and the smile blossomed across his mouth in blazing whiteness. 

"Open it," he urged again. 

With trembling fingers, Dawson began to work at the seal on the back of the envelope, not wanting to disturb the lovely blue wax imprint of a swimming otter, which might help him to identify the woman at a later date. 

"She sends me a note every so often," MacLeod explained as he pretended to read the financial report he held in his hand, though his eyes saw something entirely different than the page of paper littered with black numbers. "It's just to keep in touch. And it always says the same thing." 

"What's that?" The paper was lifting gently beneath Joe's careful efforts, and his excitement was building. 

"She's the queen of simplicity, actually," Duncan went on teasingly. "The message is always a single word, Gaelic for 'Remember.' As if I could ever forget her." 

Joe wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, acutely aware of the artificial limbs beneath the fabric that carried him through his days. His fingers were tingling at the anticipation of discovering another chapter of this extraordinary man's life. Carefully he drew the slip of parchment from its paper cradle and stared at the elegantly lettered word. He searched for a signature, a mark of identity of some sort, but there was only one word. 

He smiled. 

"This one's different," Joe teased back. 

The look of utter surprise on the dark Scot's face was priceless. He dropped the financial report and snatched at the paper Joe held, but the Watcher jerked it away. 

"Tell me her name and I'll give it to you," he promised. 

"I thought you were my friend," Duncan taunted impatiently. He snatched at it again, and Dawson kept it out of his grasp. 

"Her name." 

Duncan's shoulders slumped. "I can't, Joe. Her people call her 'She Whose Name May Not Be Spoken.' She gave it to me in confidence." 

"And visions of Ursula Andress dance in my head," the Watcher quipped. "You were her lover?" 

A wistful look passed over the Scot's dark face, followed by immeasurable sadness. "Yes." 

"I gotta know, Mac." Dawson sat silently, waiting. 

MacLeod stared at nothing, remembering. "Have you ever heard the expression, 'Before there were mountains, there were Basques'?" 

Joe nodded. The Basques were a unique people nestled in the mountains and coasts where Spain and France were neighbors. Their language was unrelated to any other tongue, and their history stretched back farther than records could carry them. There were no people like the Basques anywhere else on the planet, and their uniqueness was a point of fierce pride. 

"Well, before there were Basques, there were Wataru, the People of the Otter, who live entirely at sea. It was the only way they could be sure of protecting... her from the rest of the Immortals." 

Joe twitched in his seat, stunned at the discovery he was making. "How old is she?" 

"I don't know. Thousands of years, maybe. She never said, I never asked. We don't usually discuss our ages much, Joe." 

"What do the Wataru call her, then?" 

Duncan held out his hand for the letter, and smiled secretively. 

The Watcher tucked the paper into his jacket pocket and shook his head. "Not till I get a name." 

"Don't put her in your journals, Joe," MacLeod warned seriously. "Don't mention her people. This is a matter of sacred trust here between friends." 

Joe reached for the bottle of Glenmorangie and poured himself a draught in the empty glass his friend had brought to the table for him. But between setting down the bottle and picking up his tumbler, the Immortal Highlander darted forward, yanked open Joe's blazer and filched the paper from his pocket. 

MacLeod sat back down in his chair and flipped the paper over so he could see the calligraphy on its face. 

_Come?_

A huge grin of pleased surprise slashed across his face, and he leaped to his feet again. Tossing the note down on the table, he scooped up the rest of his mail, downed the glass of whisky in a single swallow, and told his Watcher he could keep the note for posterity's sake. 

Joe pushed to his feet quickly, cane in hand to steady him as he balanced on his prosthetic legs. He hurried out of the bar in MacLeod's wake, and barely made it to the car before the Highlander put it in gear. 

"Where are we going?" he asked, his casual tone masking his excitement. 

"To the docks," the Scot replied. "Where else?" 

"C'mon, Mac. You've been playing me like a grand piano since you got here. Spill it." 

But Duncan just shrugged and turned in his seat to back out of the parking space. He drove to the waterfront with as much speed and skill as he could manage, parked his car and hurried down to the quays, glancing at the people on the docks and rushing to the next pier until he found the object of his quest. A man dressed in jeans and a T-shirt stood beside a cigarette boat, waiting nonchalantly. His attire was unremarkable except for the colorful scarf wrapped turban-style around his head, with a small drape sweeping under his chin and fastened above his left ear with a small silver pin. 

The Scot greeted him with a salutation in a language Joe couldn't place, and he watched the exotic stranger bow to him, smiling broadly as he came up again to make eye contact. The Watcher hurried after his old friend, eager to catch up to him and prevent his getting away, but the Highlander leaped down lightly into the sleek speedboat while the Wataru man loosed the mooring ropes that anchored his craft to the dock. With a graceful hop the man was in the boat beside his passenger and cranking the engine to life while Joe ambled down the dock, but MacLeod pushed the boat away from the pier, ensuring that he would not be followed. 

"Sorry, Joe. She's only expecting one," the Highlander apologized half-heartedly. 

The Watcher stood on the wooden planking, trying to decide if he should attempt a jump, knowing full well he would land in the water. Mac might pull him aboard, but more likely he would speed off and leave the rescue to any of the others thronging the docks rather than spare a moment longer away from his lost love. 

Joe wondered what the story was behind the missing year. He remembered that Duncan had been the guest of a wealthy pirate on the Barbary Coast, one among many from several nations. The Immortal had won a series of tournaments at chess and fencing, and after a night of revelry he had disappeared from his apartments, only to resurface in the same city a year later. For a few weeks he spent time trying to purchase a fast ship and a crew to man her, but eventually gave up the quest and returned to his travels alone, saddened by some mysterious loss. His Watcher of the day could not get the story out of him even after plying the Scot with an unending supply of rum. Joe Dawson wondered if the mystery of the missing year would ever be solved, and found a small part of himself hoping that it would remain an enigma. 

He watched the fast black boat speed away out to sea, and wondered about the flotilla that awaited him there. He promised himself he would search through every reference he could find to discover if there were any records of the Wataru, and possibly ask Methos about them the next time he saw the old man. 

Joe grinned. This was a challenge he was going to enjoy.

 

 

Jarod awakened beneath the covers of a comfortable bed, the after-effects of the medication he had been given making his mouth dry and his eyes feel as if they had been sandpapered. On the bedside table was a pitcher of water and a clean glass, and he drank thirstily as his eyes wandered about the room. From the motion he knew he was on board a ship, and the stateroom windows confirmed that assumption. The Pretender could tell that the ship was huge, possibly as large as an ocean liner, but the decor was definitely not Princess Lines.  

There was a fireplace at one end of the room, dressed in exquisitely carved marble, and the furniture in the suite was all well cared-for antiques, much of it in a style Jarod did not recognize. Rich carpet covered the floors, and heavy velvet and brocade drapes hung by the windows, ready to shut out bright day and create an artificial night if desired. All of the major furnishings were fixed to the floor in deference to the movement of the ship during storms. 

It was not the prison that Jarod had expected to see upon waking, but the apartment of an honored guest. Expensive paintings hung on the walls, and statuary was bracketed to the floor. Fresh flowers stood in a vase on a table near the sofa, and a tray of refreshments tempted him to come closer and sniff, but until he knew more about his forceful hosts, he decided not to sample them. 

He sauntered toward the door, glancing about for surveillance devices he was sure were installed to watch him, but saw nothing. A knock sounded on the door just as he put his hand to it to see if it was locked. The knob turned easily and he pulled the door open, not sure what to expect on the other side. He smiled into a pair of welcoming green eyes set in the most unusual face he had ever seen. 

The woman looked to be in her early twenties, but her hair was snow white, paler than platinum blonde, and lay gleaming like strands of pliable ice against her golden skin. But it was her face that held his attention, for those slanted emerald eyes were filled with an ageless wisdom far older than the youth her body expressed. She was radiantly beautiful, and Jarod felt his heart plummet into his abdomen when she laughed. 

He had never heard anything quite so innocently happy before. 

"Hello," she said warmly, clasping her hands together behind her. "May I come in?" 

Her English was lightly accented with something akin to French, and yet wholly different; something innately musical... or perhaps that was just a quality of her lovely voice. Jarod couldn't decide. In fact, he was having a great deal of trouble thinking at all. He stepped back to allow her entrance, and took note of the short but richly costumed men who followed her silently into the room. 

"Who are you and why am I here?" Jarod demanded as he closed the door. 

"We are the Wataru, People of the Otter," she replied brightly. "For centuries we have wandered the great oceans, keeping to ourselves. There is nothing written in your history books about us, because we go to great lengths to seem a part of whatever culture we are visiting. Today we are American. Next week, Inuit. Two months ago, Mexican. Some of us are better at it than others, and it is they who go ashore when necessary for supplies." 

_Pretenders,_ he thought to himself. A whole community of them. He wanted to know more. 

Some of the lightness faded from her face, and her gaze dropped to the floor. 

"We took you because we could not chance your lack of cooperation. If you help us, we will set you free. If not..." 

She gave him a sad smile and a hopeless shrug. "If not, then you become one of us, living eternally on the sea." 

"Or dying in it," he shot back coolly. "That's the other option, isn't it?" 

All trace of levity vanished. "No. I will not have you killed. Wataru respect life, and we live for freedom, so please understand, we do not choose this path lightly. I have waited a long time to fulfill my promise, but I will not pass up this opportunity to do so." 

Jarod crossed his arms over his chest. "What do you want?" 

She smiled again, and for a moment she could not speak. Her lips trembled, and a tear rolled slowly from the corner of one eye across the curve of her cheek. "To save a child," she said thickly, "from the people who took away your life. And if you require more incentive, I can offer you the one treasure my people hold most dear." 

Curiosity got the better of him for a moment. "And that would be...?" 

"Shima Wataru. Their goddess." Her chin lifted slightly, and she scrubbed away the tear with delicate fingers. "I am She Whose Name May Not Be Spoken." 

He couldn't help himself. Jarod chuckled softly, thoroughly amused by the overly dramatized spectacle. 

"I thought goddesses were out of style," he teased. 

One of the bodyguards took a step toward Jarod, his face revealing his extreme displeasure at the offhand remark, but Shima the Goddess stopped him with a mere glance. "It's all right, Biatua," she cooed soothingly. "He's right. And you know he means no insult to us." Her smile was placating. "Or to me." 

The guard looked chagrined and resumed his place behind her. 

"Will you help us, Jarod?" she asked softly. "I will happily be your servant if you consent." 

A frown twitched across his eyebrows for a moment. "By what right do you claim divinity? Is it a custom of your people, to choose a young woman as goddess for a time?" 

She started to reply, but was cut off by a booming voice issuing from the doorway. 

"It is her birthright," said the regal figure striding into the room, an elderly man dressed in rich silk pajamas and robe. He was obviously a person of great authority. "She _is_ a goddess, and she is ours. That is all you need to know, stranger. If she gives a promise, it will be kept. We are the Wataru, the Promise-Keepers, the Guardians of Forever." 

Shima smiled and held out a hand toward him. "Ah, Kohmet," she greeted him. "You're late." Turning to Jarod, she went on, "Kohmet is my high priest, after a fashion." 

Jarod frowned. He didn't like the feel of this situation, and wondered why these people would worship an ordinary person. Perhaps she was a symbol of something greater than humanity. He would be certain to find out before he agreed to spend much time with them, and certainly before he agreed to help in their quest, even if it sounded noble on the surface. 

"Tell me about the child," he asked cautiously. 

The goddess waved away her bodyguards, and waited until they had left the room before she began to speak. 

"In late 1981 a brilliant woman became pregnant with the child of a world renowned scientist. Soon after her condition became public knowledge, she disappeared. The child was born in the summer of the following year, in a dark place beneath the lowest floor of the complex in which you grew up." 

"SL27," Jarod answered automatically. 

Shima nodded. "They took the child, and left the mother for dead, but she escaped." A trace of sadness flickered in the corner of her smile. "Unfortunately, she never knew where they took her baby, or what became of it. She does not even know if it was a boy or girl." 

"How will you know which one of the Centre's slaves is the right one, then?" he demanded. "You don't even know what the child looks like." 

"I will have to send someone in to find that answer," she said softly. "Your guidance in that scouting mission will be invaluable, and we shall depend upon you to help us devise a plan to smuggle the child out." 

"I'm not going back there," Jarod promised staunchly. 

"We shall not ask you to do so," she assured him. "We only ask your assistance in planning, and that you stay with us until we have completed our mission. After that, we shall be happy to give you back your freedom." 

"I'm not agreeing to anything, just yet," he returned flatly. "The kid's spent 15 years at The Centre. If it's as brilliant as you seem to think, then he'll figure out how to get out on his own. Or she, as the case may be." 

"It is not the child's brilliance that incites me to help, but a promise I made to its mother." Tears gleamed in Shima's eyes, but did not fall. "This child is different, Jarod, as you are different. It is a white leopard, unable to hide in the shadows, but no less a thing of rare beauty. He must be rescued, before irreparable damage is done. There is more at stake here than one young life, and I keep my promises." 

"I need to think about your offer," Jarod said slowly. "And I need whatever information you can give me, to help me figure things out."

Shima nodded again. "Of course. I will see that you have anything you need." She pressed her palms together in a gesture of reverence, gave him a polite bow, and left the room with her high priest in tow.

 

 

Methos sat sullenly in the chair reserved for him in what appeared to be the throne room of the great ship. "I hate the sea," he grumbled to himself, and started to reach for a pear from the bowl of fruit beside him. A sensation of pressure against his skin strong enough to make his eardrums pop brought him to his feet, and he took a deep breath to staunch the wave of nausea and stomach cramps that signaled the arrival of another Immortal nearby. It passed quickly, but he knew by the strength of the signature that it was not the one he expected. 

He faced the door and waited, wishing he had a sword handy, and glancing about the room for a weapon to use if necessary. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked as he glimpsed the startled face of Duncan MacLeod. 

"I was invited," the Scot shot back. "And I know how the Wataru are about allowing strangers on board this ship, so I have to assume you were invited, too. I didn't realize you knew the goddess." 

"Well, I've got quite a lot of secrets in my past, MacLeod," the ancient one snapped. "And I don't go around confessing them to whoever will listen." 

"Not exactly in the mood for a party, are you?" Duncan mused, eyeing his friend and wondering what precipitated his extraordinarily bad mood. "So what are you doing here? I can't imagine Shima Wataru would have us both on board at the same time unless something serious was up." 

"I'm repaying a debt," Methos snarled. "She gave me shelter when I left the Horsemen, and I insisted on returning the favor whenever she asked. It only took her a few thousand years, but here I am." 

MacLeod smiled broadly. "I should think you'd be pleased to see her again. She was a wonderful hostess, as I recall." 

"How long were you with her?" demanded the elder Immortal. 

"Almost a year." 

Methos smirked angrily. "Try not setting foot on solid ground for half a century. It took that long for the Horsemen to fade into memory. I couldn't show my face any sooner than that, and it seemed we had decades of the worst weather in history. _God!_ I hate the sea." 

Duncan chuckled softly to himself. "I rather enjoyed the way the ship moves beneath you. Rather like a woman in a waterbed." He closed his eyes and pictured a lovely golden face lit by candle light, her pale hair glowing like a halo against the pillow. It took great strength of will to keep his body from reacting to the powerfully sensual memory. 

"She wasn't my type," Methos groused. "I was trying to get my life in order, and another conquest was the last thing on my mind." 

"For fifty _years?"_ Duncan was incredulous. "My God, Methos, she's one of the most beautiful women in history. How could you not--" 

The door opened again and a pair of bodyguards escorted another man into the room. He was tall, with dark hair and eyes and an air of suspicion that silenced the two Immortals immediately. Methos and MacLeod exchanged a glance, and waited for him to speak. 

"Hi," he said softly, extending his hand to Duncan first. "My name's Jarod." The other two men introduced themselves, and the trio fell into uncomfortable quiet again. "Do you know why we're here?" he asked after a moment. 

"Repaying an old debt," growled Methos. 

"Visiting an old friend," smiled Duncan. 

"Oh," said Jarod, and he walked away from them to study a painting on the wall. 

Methos frowned at the Scot, who lifted his shoulders in a marginal shrug and shook his head. Neither of them could figure what the goddess could want with all three of them at once. 

They turned in unison when the door behind the throne opened and Shima Wataru walked in, accompanied by Kohmet, who carried a silver briefcase in his hand. Jarod took a step toward him as soon as he saw it, but one of the guards blocked his path and made it clear that any threat would not be tolerated. 

Jarod stood his ground and stared the smaller man down, his glare heating up as he caught Kohmet's actions in his peripheral vision. The high priest was setting the DSA reader up on a table in plain view, and prepared to set a disk into the machine. 

"Don't," Jarod ordered sharply, turning to face the others. "There's no need to do that. I'll help you." 

Shima came to stand beside him and laid her small hand on his forearm, regret heavily shadowing her slanted eyes. "It is necessary for the others," she said quietly. "They must understand what manner of people they will be dealing with, Jarod." 

He clenched his jaws to keep from shouting, and felt his hands curl into fists at his sides as he struggled to keep himself under control. He didn't want to be seen as a freak, and for these strangers to view the painful memories stored on those disks would shape him into one in their eyes. Taking another step forward, he pushed Shima aside and reached for the case, intending to close it. 

But Shima spun behind him and slammed her elbow into his ribs, knocking him off balance in mid-step. He caught himself with his hands as he fell, braking before hitting the floor full force on his hip. He rolled onto his back and saw her standing over him, grief and sorrow and righteous indignation warring on her features.

 She offered him her hand and braced her feet wide apart to help him up. "It is necessary," she repeated. "I am sorry for your embarrassment, but it must be done." 

"Nice move," commented Duncan, turning away from the battle to watch the picture come up on the tiny screen. 

"I taught her that," bragged Methos quietly, and stepped closer to the case to catch the movie. 

Jarod 3/15/64 

A small, dark haired boy sat on the floor, playing with nuts and bolts while a man with an elegant European accent gave him instructions. 

"I don't want to, Sydney," said the boy. "I'm tired. I wanna go home." The child started to cry, lifted a wrench and started to attack the machine he was in the process of building. 

"Stop it, Jarod!" Sydney demanded, kneeling down and grasping the child tightly by his upper arms. 

"But I want my mommy," little Jarod whined. "You promised I'd see her again. I don't like doing this stuff. I don't like that awful food you make me eat. I don't like being locked up in my room. And there's no windows, Sydney! I don't know if it's daytime or nighttime anymore. I wanna go home!" He began to sob, and for a moment the man just held him at arms' length, as if at a loss what to do. 

"Tears accomplish nothing, Jarod," Sydney intoned flatly, releasing his charge. "This emotional outburst only delays completion of your work. You know you have to do it, so stop crying and put this engine back together properly. I know you can." 

After a little more coaxing, young Jarod's tears began to wane and he slowly resumed his repairs. But the look of anguish never left his child's face, and when he was done he walked away quickly, ignoring the praise and the embrace he was offered as a reward. 

Kohmet picked up another disk and displayed it, and then another from a later period, and another from recent years. The message was clear that The Centre was a place of extreme mental abuse and occasional torture, all in the name of science, and that the young man who stood in their midst was exceptional, a human chameleon capable of becoming anything: doctor, lawyer, pilot, thief; and excelling at each new trade. He was a genius, one of humanity's most gifted, and the life he had led up to that point was twisted beyond the scope of mortal pain. That he had survived at all was a miracle in itself, but when Methos and MacLeod faced him after the last data was displayed, there was no pity in their eyes as Jarod expected to see. The flame of retribution burned brightly in both their souls, and their commitment to the project was absolute. 

"And now you see why we must rescue this child," Shima said quietly to the two men she had invited. "It will be one of us one day, and we cannot allow these people to have it for their studies. You understand now, don't you?" 

A glance passed between the three Immortals filled with unspoken meaning, and they turned at last to face the Pretender, whose head was cocked and a curious gleam lit his brown eyes. 

"Exactly what sort of fraternity have I stumbled into?" he mused aloud. 

"We are gifted in our own way, Jarod," Shima offered with a placating smile. "There is much we cannot tell you about us, for we live under a veil of secrecy much like your own. Suffice it to say that the child is in even greater danger than you were, if it should have to live much longer in that place." 

"I wish I could rescue all of them," he returned sadly. "But I know that's impossible at the moment. What's our first step?" 

"We need to know everything you can tell us about The Centre buildings," interjected MacLeod. "From layout of the building, to security systems, to general operations, to personnel. Anything that may be of value in locating this child and helping it out." 

"How did you get out?" demanded Methos, crossing his arms over his chest and shooting the Pretender a suspicious glare. 

"Air ducts," Jarod grinned, his face lit with boyish innocence. "Cliché, isn't it? But it worked. Getting past the motion sensors in the main ducts wasn't easy, but it is possible. Only I wouldn't recommend it as your method of escape. We'll have to think of something else for this case." He turned to Shima. "I'll need a computer, some large paper for architectural drawings, a projector to connect to the computer, and some Pez. Lots of Pez." 

Shima frowned delicately. "What is Pez?" 

A look of sheer delight lit up his face from the inside. "You've never had Pez?" He glanced around at the palatial surroundings, and realized that it, too, was a form of prison. This young woman was treated like royalty, and as such would have had her freedom curtailed significantly. "It's candy." He pulled a clown-headed dispenser from the breast pocket of his black shirt, flicked the head back and offered her one. "Try it. It's good!" 

The goddess of the Otter People reached hesitantly for one of the pink tablets, put it in her mouth and after a moment of allowing it to rest on her tongue and impart its chalky strawberry flavor, she began to chew. Pleasure dawned on her face, and she nodded slowly. "Yes, Jarod. It _is_ good. Thank you. Kohmet, please see to it that Jarod has as much of this Pez as he wishes. And I would like some as well."

 Kohmet smiled indulgently, gave her a slight bow, and left the room with Jarod's silver Halliburton in his hand.

 

 

"Finding the child will be the most difficult part of the task," said Jarod after finishing his presentation on the Centre. He motioned for the lights to come up, and flicked off the overhead projection he had been using to display technical details, plans and schematics. "Obviously, since I can't go back there, we'll have to send someone in, someone who can snoop through records with impunity for a short time, under the auspices of official business." 

"I can get a job in Security," offered MacLeod. "Though we might have to remove someone fairly high up to create an opening." 

"That would be a good place to insert someone, because you could aid in the escape," Jarod agreed, "but there is also a great risk that being in that position might require you to put your own life in jeopardy to get the others out." 

MacLeod did not smile, did not give any intimation of how small that sacrifice would be for him. "I'm willing," he said simply. 

Jarod nodded in humble acceptance. "But there's still the matter of--" 

"I'll go in," Methos grumbled. With a heavy sigh, he stared at the pad of paper before him with notes scrawled in a dozen dead languages, and went on. "I've published several papers in the last five years on the psychology of the artificial personality under the name of Dr. Nicholas Hosta. I actually have quite a reputation among the medical community as a radical pioneer in psychogenics. I'm sure The Centre would leap at the chance to hire me." With a glance at the Scot, he added, "It was something I was working on with Sean Burns." 

A look of grief passed briefly over MacLeod's face and was gone. "Artificial personality?" 

"How the creation of artificial personalities can be used as therapies for certain deeply troubled psyches," Jarod filled in quickly. Turning to Methos, he nodded and gave a brief, emotionless smile. "I've read the papers, Dr. Hosta. Intriguing theories. And I'm sure we can get you a post at The Centre with that work under your belt." 

"We'll have to do a bit of record construction first, though," Methos added. "The Dr. Hosta identity is a bit thin in places." 

"Leave that to me," Jarod assured him. "We'll need to set you up in a university or hospital, so Centre operatives can locate you once your application for employment arrives, along with the proper references." 

The trio finished up their initial planning sequence, and Jarod sat down at the computer to begin writing a complete life history for the fictional Dr. Hosta, including a teaching position for him at MIT. By the end of the day, Dr. Hosta had his bag packed and was heading back to the mainland, booked for a flight to New England and one of the most prestigious universities in the country.

 

 

Duncan MacLeod had been on duty for a week in the Training Center, one of the above-ground buildings perched on the rocky Delaware coastline. He kept to himself as much as possible, ran the new security troops through rigorous exercises, and pretended to show not the slightest interest in Centre activities. He kept his distance from management types except when business made it necessary, and avoided speaking to the one other new face in Centre halls that was his only friend in that alien environment. 

Likewise, Methos did not socialize with MacLeod, but concentrated on his work and poured through records concerning his patients and operatives working on related projects. It took him nearly three months to find three prospective candidates, but he did not ask to work with any of them or volunteer his time where it might incur suspicion as to his motives. Once his probationary period was over, Methos was assigned to a particularly sensitive case, which the Tower had high hopes of turning into a valuable commodity. The purpose of the candidate's training was unknown to him, and he made certain not to ask unless necessary, in keeping with Centre policy. But the case intrigued him. 

He did not actually meet Elektra face to face, so he had no idea exactly how old she was. Methos was shown into a tiny booth just off the computer rooms, and strapped into a Virtual Reality Unit the likes of which he had never seen. For a moment he was afraid. Some of this technology made him distinctly uneasy, which was why he chose jobs that would keep his nose in books made of paper and bound in cloth. Part of his soul retained its superstitious notions of eons past, and he did not like being hooked up to a computer that looked as if it might suck his mind right into it, keeping him there forever. 

Working in The Centre's depths did enough of that sort of thing with him anyway.

 But he fought down the blind panic and felt his body perspiring beneath the gloves, boots and headset, and relaxed into the experiment after a few minutes. As long as he could still feel his too-rapid heartbeat and sweaty palms, as long as he could maintain a clear awareness of his body, he believed he would be all right. 

In the electronic world, he found himself in darkness, standing on a hard, paved-flat surface. A canopy of stars stretched endlessly overhead, and he wondered suddenly what his Virtual body looked like, exactly which of the thousands of people he had been, and from what era. 

As far as he could tell, he was completely alone. 

"Elektra," he called, turning full circle to search for his elusive companion in that strange, unreal place. 

"My name is Nicholas," said Methos kindly, with a note of reassurance intended to draw his subject in. "Please show yourself. I'd like to speak with you." 

Fingers tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned quickly to face his patient.

 She was slender almost to the point of emaciation, with a mop of curly brown hair and eyes of such an indistinct color that they might have been muddy blue or watery brown or any shade in between. There was a childlike waifness about her, but a sharp darkness in her face that surprised him, and almost made him step backward. This one was deeply troubled, and he hoped he knew enough to help her even a little. 

"Hello," he smiled warmly. "I'm pleased to meet you, even if it is in this electronic contraption."

 Elektra's appearance shifted instantly. She became a sultry blonde, with slender waist and too-large breasts spilling over the top of her shimmering blue evening gown, and she smiled back with invitation.

"Hello, Nicholas," she purred. "What do you want to do to me today?"

Methos did take a step backward then, intent on showing her that there was a distinct division between them that he would not cross. "I want to teach you to be happy," he said simply. "Your manager, Beatrix, has explained to me how depressed you've been lately." 

"All you want is to put me back to work," Elektra complained. Suddenly she became a brunette with startling green eyes, glittering with anger that had no outlet. "I won't do it. I'll never work for any of you again." 

"What sort of work do you do, Elektra?" he asked cautiously, glancing down at his attire. He grinned in spite of himself, noting that he had on the white trousers and dusty boots that had been his daily attire during the Four Horsemen period, and without looking further, he knew that his face would be painted half blue and half white, his dark hair standing straight up on top of his head and falling down in a long mane at the back of his neck. _What a sight he must have been for her, dressed like that._

"You people don't talk to each other much, do you?" she asked quietly. 

"No, we don't," he returned, and set about changing the scenery. "I wanted you to tell me about yourself, in your own way, rather than get my information in a biased report." He stretched a bright bowl of azure sky over them, and then closed most of it out with a lacy roof of evergreen boughs. A carpet of soft moss spread out beneath his feet, and he set a stream to gurgling nearby. There were no tables or chairs to sit on, but Methos liked the organic touch and rested his haunches on a large fallen tree beside him. He patted the trunk with his hand and invited her to sit down with him. 

Panic showed clearly in her face, and her breathing became quick and shallow as she stared at the vastness around her, lost in the open space. 

"You have agoraphobia," Methos recognized quickly, and corrected his forest to include walls made of stone fairly close around them, and a high arched ceiling above. Torches sprang up in the clearing nearby to light them, and he could see his subject relax again. "I'm sorry. No one mentioned to me that you were afraid of open spaces. You've never been on the outside, then?" 

"Yes, once, when I was first born," Elektra replied instinctively, still not quite herself. She put her hands out, as if trying to feel the walls with them like a blind person. "Or so they tell me.  I'm just uncomfortable with large spaces because I'm so--" 

She cut herself off quickly and seemed to gather her wits in the same instant. "Very good, doctor. Beatrix hasn't told you anything about me, I gather." Now she was middle aged, with lines of character streaking down near her mouth and webbing the corners of her eyes. She sighed. "I'm tired. I want this torture to be ended. _Please._ Set me free." 

"Freedom isn't all it's cracked up to be," he quipped. "Believe me, the ordered, organized world you live in here is much better than the chaos of... out there. And if you didn't like the feeling of vastness in this simulator, it would be a thousand times more distressing in reality." 

Elektra shook her head. "I don't want out, Nicholas," she countered wearily, suddenly old and white haired. "I want to be _free._ Of everything." 

Methos felt her pain stab deeply into his heart. "That isn't an option, Elektra," he reminded her. "So why don't you work with me and see if we can't find you some happiness in the way things are?" 

"Do you really think you can?" she asked, without a glimmer of hope. 

He smiled back at her, and smoothed his appearance to the current one he wore in the real world, lab coat and all. "We'll certainly give it a go," he returned. 

"You have no idea what I've been through, Nicholas," she told him, stepping up close and embracing him, resting her wrinkled cheek against his chest. "If you knew, I think you would feel differently." She stepped back and gave him a brave smile, returning to her teen-waif look with the big, sad eyes. "Let's get on with it then, shall we? What do you want me to do?" 

"First of all, why don't we start with what you really look like?" he offered casually. "This is the real me, though I confess I don't wear the lab coat that often." 

Elektra glanced sharply toward the empty space on her left and was silent for a moment, as if her attention was elsewhere. 

"Beatrix says I may not," she announced a moment later. 

A frown twitched Methos' dark brows together for a moment. "Why are we being monitored?" he demanded to the emptiness around them. "I explained how important it was for me to be isolated with my subject. You've compromised the element of trust here. If I can't have my subject completely comfortable, then I can't do what you want." 

An electronic voice in his ear shocked his body slightly sideways. "Every work in progress is monitored in The Centre," said Beatrix flatly. "For security purposes, you understand. You may be off probation, but you haven't been here long enough to garner a great deal of our confidence yet. Give it some time, Nicholas, and work within the parameters." 

Methos sighed distractedly. Anger boiled up sharply inside him, and he clenched his jaws to keep from flinging back a barbed retort that might just get him expelled from that awful place and kill the mission completely. He couldn't afford that, especially after having spent a little time with some of the other lost souls dwelling in Purgatory. 

"All right, but keep your presence to a minimum," he snapped. "If you want to give Elektra or me instructions, please see to it that guidelines are established before we have our sessions. I need her to learn to trust me if my program is going to be effective." 

"Understood," said the soulless voice in his headset.

 It took a few minutes to compose himself, and then he chose another form. He had enjoyed life for a few years as a Renaissance artist, and built his tiny, sunlit studio around them with the power of a thought. Rich warm browns surrounded them, and a lacy curtain of parchment-colored cloth hid the view of Rome stretching out endlessly from the window. 

"Who would you most like to be, Elektra?" he asked soothingly, setting up his easel where it would catch the most light, and putting a canvas on the slender shelf. 

Teenage-waif Elektra created a modest gown of ivory velvet and coifed her hair in a long fall of sandy brown curls tumbling down her back. She came around the easel to glance at the empty canvas, and contemplated it for a moment. "I don't know," she answered honestly. "My options are so limited, I can only guess what might be.  I have no idea what I look like.  Only... different." 

Methos gestured to a couch set by the stucco wall, and asked her to sit for him while he painted her. He asked her questions while he mixed his pigments, recalling from memory how the linseed oil had smelled, the scent of the turpentine and varnishes, the feel of warm sun on his left shoulder, the feel of the wood brush handle and the rough grain of the canvas beneath his fingertips. It took him back, and he forgot for a moment who he was, what he was trying to accomplish, and enjoyed the sound of Elektra's soft, silky voice in his ears. They fell into small talk, and it wasn't until nature called that he remembered where his body was, and what was attached to it. He drew back into himself quickly, and the old fear returned. The afternoon in his Roman studio was much too real to be comfortable, and he wanted to step away from it hastily. 

"I have to go, Elektra," he said brusquely, laying down his battered wooden palette and wiping off his hands on a rag. 

"But I was enjoying this," she pouted, frowning at him. "When will you be back?" 

"I'll have to check my schedule," he promised. "But I think that's enough for today. I'll see you again soon." And then he peeled off the headset and other attachments and sat in the chair until he had control of his body enough to stand again. He set the equipment aside and left the booth, aware that his lab coat and clothing underneath were now drenched with perspiration. 

He couldn't wait to get to his quarters and jump in the shower, standing for nearly ten minutes in steaming hot water, feeling it run over his skin while he trembled beneath it. He had to keep telling himself that the water and shower stall were real, and the afternoon in the studio was not. 

But it felt real, in every sense of the word. The virtual effects had somehow disappeared as Elektra sat on the sofa, and time had fallen away from him there. He couldn't afford to let it happen again. 

He dressed quickly and went out for a stroll on the grounds, down to the agricultural research facility where the gardens were best. In the shelter of afternoon beneath a canopy of leaves, he remembered the haunted face of the girl he had never seen, and wondered which of her shapes had been closest to real. There was something not quite right about each of them, which he knew was a significant point, but he couldn't figure exactly what message she was trying to send him. He needed to talk to Jarod, but Centre grounds was not the place for that. Even out in the open, cellular calls could be monitored and none of them could take that risk. As soon as he got an afternoon off in fair weather, he would go sailing off the coast and have a chat with his resident Virtual Reality expert, who was still in custody of the Wataru and their goddess. 

Methos was just about to go back to his quarters in the main building when he heard the sound of running footsteps and automatically turned toward them, knowing in advance who was coming. He had felt the warning rush and reacted to it, and after a moment Duncan jogged into view, dressed in Centre Security sweats and breathing hard, as if he had just finished his daily workout. 

Which he had.

The Scot slowed to a stop and began stretching, close enough to have a quiet talk with Methos, but far enough away not to arouse suspicion from a casual observer. "Find out any more about those three possibles?" he panted. 

Methos shrugged. "Only that there are more subjects with no records at all who could prove to be potential candidates as well," he returned unhappily. "I begin to wonder how many oubliettes this place has in it, how many lost souls have been born and died here with no more than a handful of people knowing they existed at all." 

"You've got one that's really bothering you," MacLeod guessed. "Anything I can help with?"

The elder Immortal glanced around, watchful for anyone approaching. "See if you can locate any records on a subject named Elektra. I haven't a clue how old she is, or even if she's truly female. I'm not allowed to see her in person, just through some virtual reality contraption that scares the shit out of me." 

MacLeod grinned, understanding completely. "Isn't technology a wonderful thing," he returned dryly. "Deal with it the best you can, and I'll get back to you. I'm just glad it's you and not me in that thing." With a sly chuckle, he turned and trotted off, cutting off any retort that his old friend might have wanted to throw at him. Neither of them could risk being seen as acquaintances, and Duncan used that to his advantage, giving him the last word when he might not have gotten it otherwise. 

Methos smoldered in the woods for another few minutes, took a stroll through the gardens to calm himself down from the simulation, and by twilight was ready to return to his office and begin making his notes on the day.

_END OF PART 1_


	2. Immortal Quest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jarod must return to The Centre in order to assist with Elektra's rescue. Duncan's "fencing matches" with Miss Parker heat up.  
> Methos requests a face-to-face meeting with his new patient.

In the three months he had been on board, Jarod explored every inch of the ship, making adjustments and repairs where he saw things needing his help. The armada of ships that traveled with the ocean liner were varied enough not to attract any attention, from fishing trawlers and sailboats to small yachts and cabin cruisers, with speedy cigarette boats for running swift errands to shore. Each of the vessels was connected with radios and some fairly sophisticated satellite based communications gear, which enabled them to travel in a loose group and still retain their umbilicus to the Mother Ship on which Shima Wataru traveled.

Their society interested him, and in just a few weeks he picked up their language with a fluency that startled even their goddess. Since his escape from The Centre the previous year, he had heard about gypsies and read up on them, though there was little information available on statistical research. He thought it crafty of them to hide their numbers and avoid any concrete documentation, admired the way they could uproot and vanish into the night. And the Wataru seemed to have adopted that need for secrecy as well, with the exception of keeping to the water rather than living on land. That aspect in and of itself was noteworthy, and Jarod meant to find out why it was so important for them to be isolated from the rest of the human race. 

So he asked. 

Bikana was the ship's steward, and as such was responsible for keeping tabs on the stores, managing the housekeeping staff and other domestic duties that kept her in moderately close contact with the goddess and her guests. Jarod went to visit her in her office, ostensibly to ask to have a satellite modem installed in his room so he could continue his other research projects, but also to pick her brain and learn what he could from her. 

He took a seat in the empty chair across from her desk and politely made his request, studying an old photograph sitting in a silver frame on the credenza behind her. The photo featured Shima Wataru holding a little girl about three years old on the deck of the ship, but the picture was done in black and white and had the appearance of one taken long ago, its surface dry and brittle-looking and its image beginning to fade. 

Bikana noticed him studying the photograph, and held it out to him for a closer look. 

"You find her beautiful, yes?" the steward asked pleasantly. "You should tell her so. We often forget that she is also a woman, and has a woman's needs." 

"What makes her a goddess in the eyes of the Wataru, then?" he mused aloud. "Why is she special to you?" 

Bikana laughed lightly. "Because she _is_ our goddess. She is our past and our future, Jarod," the old woman answered evasively. "She is eternal, and through her, the Wataru will also live forever." 

Jarod stifled a smile, feeling a kinship to her childlike beliefs. "Wouldn't it be nice if that were true," he said softly. "But everybody dies, Bikana. Even Shima Wataru will die one day." 

"Not if the Wataru can prevent it," the woman returned brightly. "That is why we live on the water, where we can control those who would hunt her." 

The Pretender frowned. "Who would want to hunt her?" 

A closed look slid over the steward's face, as she realized she had made an error. "Others like her, who have not been treated with such reverence as she, evil ones who would gift us all with darkness." 

"I don't understand," said Jarod. Something about the face of the child in the photograph was naggingly familiar, but Jarod couldn't place it. He glanced up at Bikana and instantly recognized family resemblance; in fact, the resemblance was so strong that it might have been Bikana herself in the picture. Her features were certainly unique, and both of them had a beauty mark in the same place. _But that was impossible._ Shima Wataru could not have known Bikana as a child -- the goddess hadn't even been born yet. 

He handed the photograph back to the old woman and smiled. "So why is Shima a goddess?" 

Warm affection lit Bikana's face up from the inside. "Because she is all things good, Jarod. Because she remembers for us, and teaches us her wisdom. Through her, we learn to live better lives. With her, we know peace, such peace that is unknown to the rest of the world. She is the sun in our sky, the fire in our night that keeps us warm. She _is_ a goddess, Jarod. She _is._ " 

"But she's also a woman, you said," he countered. "How is it possible to be both?" 

Bikana shrugged. "I cannot say more, my friend. For that, you must ask Shima herself." 

"Fair enough," he returned with a pleasant smile. He thanked Bikana for her time, and left her cabin in search of the youthful goddess. 

Shima stood in the library, humming softly to herself as she turned a large antique globe standing on a dais beneath a skylight. She stood barefoot in a long silken gown, dusting the toes of her right foot back and forth across the plush carpet beneath her idly, and Jarod smiled at the lovely picture she made, light streaming down from above to set her aglow. She was so pale she didn't look quite human, as if white-feathered wings might sprout from her shoulders at any moment and carry her heavenward. 

He was so lost in the vision before him that he didn't realize how softly he crept across the carpeted floor, or how engrossed Shima was in her study of the globe, but when he stood at the foot of the dais, he called her and she reacted with a sharp jerk, catching the sleeve of her gown on an ornament on the global axis. She lost her balance and fell off the dais on the far side where he couldn't catch her, and he heard the sickening snap of bone in flesh as she landed on her elbow. 

Jarod rushed around to help her, saw her rise to her knees, holding her upper arm close to her body, pain etched on her delicate face. She had fallen against a nearby railing and fractured her arm, and a small cut across her elbow bled profusely down the length of her arm. 

"Let me help you," he said quickly, trying to get her to lie down so he could set her arm and send for whatever medical staff the ship might have. 

"No, no, I'll be fine," Shima promised him, turning away to keep him from getting a good look at her injury. 

"Your arm is broken," he told her brusquely. "I'm a doctor. I can help you." 

"No need," she assured him, dodging his grasp again. "I will be all right. Please go." 

He pushed her defending hand roughly aside and caught her injured arm just below the elbow and lifted it, trying to hold her arm still so he could assess the damage. She cried out in pain as the broken ends moved in his grip, but as he set the fractured pieces into place he felt the unnatural jiggling cease, as if the humerus began to knit back together again. And before his eyes, he saw a tiny flash of blue dancing over the cut on her forearm and watched in disbelief as the miniature bolts of lightning seemed to erase the damage altogether, sealing up the wound as if it had never been. 

Jarod stood stupefied, turning her arm over in his palms, stroking over where the cut had been with his fingertips, palpating the area over the break to feel a single piece of solid bone beneath the muscle and skin. After a moment Shima withdrew her arm from his grasp and backed a step away, her cheeks infused with fresh color that made her look even more girlish. He watched her walk toward a desk in the corner, where she drew a tissue from its holder and began to blot up the streak of congealing blood tracing down her forearm and onto her hand. 

"I'll just go clean up," she offered with a smile. 

"No," he said firmly, stepping into her path as she strolled toward the door leading out into the corridor. "I want to know how you did that." 

"I'm a goddess, remember?" she asked teasingly, lightly, trying to pass off the incident as something minor that did not deserve his attention. "I can't be hurt so easily." 

But conclusions were already crystal clear in Jarod's mind as he recalled what he had seen in great detail. "Or get sick. Or age." He paused, already certain, remembering the photograph of the goddess Shima with a baby Bikana at least 60 years earlier. "Or die. Is that it?" 

A wry, sad smile curved the corners of her mouth playfully, but the humor did not spread from there. "You are very quick, Jarod," she praised him. "Immortality can be a difficult burden to bear. Please don't ask me more questions about it." She glanced around the ship with a trace of claustrophobia brightening her eyes, and smiled again. 

"It gets to you after a while, doesn't it?" he assumed quietly. "You've been at sea for a long time. This ship is all you know." 

"This ship, and hundreds more like it," Shima admitted, her voice breathless now, growing agitated. "I must get on deck. Please." 

Jarod walked with her to the stairs that would take them on deck, out under the canopy of sun-bright sky. Shima calmed down quickly once she had the wind in her face. Jarod snagged a glass of water from a passing server, dipped her tissue into the liquid and began to clean the remaining blood from her arm. 

"Most of the time, it doesn't bother me," she said quietly, watching him wash her expertly and pouring the remaining water overboard. "But sometimes, when I am reminded of the length of my past, and the limits of my world, it becomes too much. How I would love to walk on land and feel grass under me. Or rocks, or dirt, or solid concrete, any kind of surface that doesn't undulate beneath my feet." She smiled indulgently at him, as if he was a small child. "My people go to great lengths to bring the world to me, so it is easier to get through the days."

"And the nights?" Jarod asked warmly. "I know what it's like to live in a contained space. The nights were always the worst, when the loneliness was most unbearable." 

She stood on tiptoe briefly and brushed a quick kiss across his lips. "I have had the luxury of companions, now and then," she confessed. "But they grow old and die, and then I am alone again. I understand loneliness, Jarod. It is difficult for an Immortal watching the seasons of life change around me, when I am always... this." She swept her hand negligently over her face, as if to dismiss her eternal youth and beauty as insignificant. "My people have been my guardians since the day I was born, and in turn, I have cherished them as if they were my own children. But it is still a prison, and part of me longs to be free of it, gilded cage that it is." 

"Then why don't you just leave?" Jarod couldn't understand what kept her there when she so obviously wished to be free.

"Because of the prophecy," she breathed, and turned away. 

But before she gave him her back, he caught a glimpse of soul-deep pain in her ageless eyes that wounded him to the core. 

"Tell me about it," he suggested, and slipped his hands around her slender waist, pulling her close enough to smell the perfume of her hair. 

"There can be only One," she mumbled, staring at the horizon and watching the colorful sails of one of the pleasure boats that always ran with them in fair weather. Louder, where he could hear it, she injected a note of bravado to her voice and continued. "My father was a prophet, and my mother a healer of great skill. She was a stranger to the Wataru, who lived on the land at that time, but they took her into their hearts because of her kindness and beauty, and when I was born my father told them what was to be done. He gave me to the Wataru as their own, and told them that I should be the repository of all their knowledge and treasure. I should be taught all the most important things, and they should seek out teachers for me, to impart the great philosophies and medicines and arts, so they would not be lost. And when I was twenty, my father put a knife to my breast, and made me Immortal. My mother took her leave of us then, saying she was needed elsewhere, and I never saw her again. Until last year, when she set me on this quest." 

"So the Wataru have protected you all this time, and in return, you teach them the wisdom of the ages. Neat trade." Jarod frowned. "But what do they protect you from? In ancient days I can see you might have been burned at the stake, or other such homey welcomes. But now? People are above superstition now." 

Shima chuckled. "Raised where you were, you have to ask me that?" she teased. "I'd be locked up and poked and prodded and endlessly murdered, have my DNA scanned and my blood drawn a dozen times a day. I'd become the ultimate laboratory rat, Jarod. The fact that I'm a sentient being with a soul would be frightfully well overlooked in the interests of science." 

He slid his arms tighter about her waist and leaned his cheek against her hair. "Oh. Yeah. Right." He felt a slight flush creep into his face, for he had just given thought to doing a few experiments of his own to answer some questions, and realized that it would cause her profound embarrassment and loss of face if he even asked to examine her.

She moved out of his embrace with a trace of discomfort. "Not my favorite subject, my friend," she commented hesitantly. "Would you like to discuss your most horrifying simulation, perhaps?" 

Jarod grinned as she faced him. _"Touché,"_ he replied quickly. "Let's talk about something more pleasant."

Shima felt the pull of that smile all the way down to her knees, and leaned against him, sliding her arms around his neck as she maneuvered closer. "Or we might not talk at all," she offered. 

Jarod's frown faded as she tiptoed up for another kiss, and thought processes halted as his blood flow was directed elsewhere and instinct took over. He had made love only once before, but this time there would be much more behind it than the sharing of pain and comfort he had experienced with Nia Robles in the northwestern forests. Shima Wataru understood his background well enough, and there was a span of years between them that was uncrossable, but somehow, in the short time they had spent in each other's company, they had fallen in love. He had tried to put the thought of a relationship out of his mind, to keep things strictly business, so that when his mission was fulfilled he would be able to walk away from her without looking back. He was good at that. 

But as her lips touched his and her body pressed close and warm in his arms, he knew that few men in all of history ever had the privilege of life in the embrace of a goddess, and he wasn't at all certain he could turn it down.

 

 

Miss Parker took her time changing into the white uniform, adjusting the chest protector and gloves so they fit just right. There had been no word, no trace of Jarod for months, and she was beginning to get worried. He always left them messages, always dropped clues in his wake to keep the team on his trail, but never let them get close enough to catch him. Sydney had been assigned to a new Pretender and had other projects to finish, while Broots spent his every moment glued to his computer, sifting through data and searching for the inevitable lures with which Jarod salted the electronic world in order to put them on his trail again. Everyone was busy, but Jarod seemed to have vanished without a trace. 

No one knew Jarod's capabilities better than Sydney, but even he was puzzled by this uncharacteristic silence, and his last conference with Miss Parker bared his concern. Jarod wasn't in a hospital, because their regular records searches would have turned him up. That left the specters of accidental death or murder looming as possible reasons for his lack of communication. Though it was unlikely that Jarod would allow himself to be surprised by a violent stranger, it was still a remote enough possibility to consider. If he had been killed, then the digital simulation archives that he carried around with him everywhere could fall into anyone's hands, endangering The Centre and everyone in it. 

She couldn't allow that to happen. She had Broots and another couple of techs scanning the news media for reports of crime victims, and other operatives were attempting to match up possible places where Jarod might have found stories that interested him, in case he might have crossed the wrong path or had the tables turned on him unexpectedly. 

But today she needed a workout, and the best thing for her presently high levels of stress was to beat the stuffings out of half a dozen of the security guards who had some background in fencing or other edged weapons. She had heard rumors of a new guy teaching martial arts to the troops who had distinct possibilities in that area. 

She had sent word to him through her personal staff of sweepers that she was interested in a match, and was pleased that he accepted. Her eyes were gleaming as she picked up her fencing foil, tucked a mask under her arm, and left the dressing room in search of a new foe. 

A group of off-duty guards gathered to watch the match, once word had spread that someone was foolish enough to engage her. She fixed the group with a frosty glare and sent them scurrying out of the gym with a single word, and her opponent flashed her a bright smile. He was darkly handsome, and she wondered if he might be interested in any additional extracurricular activities, but skidded to a stop with that line of thinking. He was a Centre employee, and mixing work with pleasure in that place could be a tragic error. One she intended not to make. 

Even if he was looking at her with obvious appreciation.

"What's your name?" she asked casually, and prowled around looking for the right spot to take up her stance. She wanted to see him move, watch him walk so she'd know a little more about his style.

"Most people call me Mac," he offered. "So you're the legendary Miss Parker. I was expecting someone taller. And meaner. You're too beautiful to be as much of a snake as the guys said you were. No offense intended. At least not from me."

She breathed a husky laugh, cold fire gleaming brightly in her green eyes. "Oh, I'm sure they were just being kind, Mac." She positioned the heavy mask over her head and whipped her flexible blade through the air experimentally. "You transferred here from our British office, is that right?" 

"Mmmm," Duncan MacLeod returned evasively, getting the feel for one of The Centre's foils. "I prefer not to use the mask and gloves. Hope you don't mind."

"Well, well," purred Miss Parker. "This is just getting better and better." She tossed aside her own mask, but retained the gloves and saluted him when he stepped into a ready stance opposite her, and saluted her with his blade. _"En garde."_

She struck first and swiftly with an uppercut followed by a slice at his head. The man dodged neatly and slapped the guarded tip of his blade across her thigh before she could react and she backpedaled, studying him for a sign of his next move. He just stood still, waiting, and when she struck again he engaged her blade with a flurry of blocks and elegant parries that left her breathless and excited. Each time she attacked him he gained ground until he had her cornered, grinning at him with mad appreciation for his skill. 

"Come on!" she dared him, urging him to attack. She stood with the point of her blade on the floor at her side, planning her next move so obviously that he flashed another brilliant smile and let her have it. She blocked his blade with hers, slid down the length of the shaft and grabbed his sword arm with her free hand, then threw her body against his to force him backward against the wall. 

Caught up in the moment, aroused by the exciting challenge he presented her, maddened by the prospect of her imminent defeat, she reacted instinctively and dropped her sword, pinning him against the wall and ravaging his lips with a white-hot kiss. 

"I'll bet you do that to all the guys," he panted teasingly. 

"Only to the ones who beat me," she grinned. "Damn, you're good, Mac." 

One dark, heavy eyebrow shot upward on his forehead. "As a matter of fact, I am," he growled, and kissed her back just as fiercely, his free hand roaming over her back and pulling her tightly against him. 

She pushed free when he came up for air, and took a step backward to retrieve her blade. "No fraternization among employees, Mac," she reminded him regretfully. "Under different circumstances..."

"I could quit," he offered congenially. 

Her sensual smile hardened and broke away. "In this place you don't quit. You get retired. Permanently. I thought you knew that." 

He nodded. "I do. But some things are worth risking your life for. Don't you think?" 

She shrugged. "I can get laid anytime I want." 

He stepped up close enough he could feel her breath on his face, and spoke so softly his reply was little more than a smoky growl. "But why eat hot dogs when you can have Steak Tartare?" he pressed gently. Without giving her time to reply, he turned away and put up his sword, saluting her with a smile as he left the empty gymnasium. 

Miss Parker felt the rush of hormones heating her up from the inside, and bathed her imagination in the fantasy the tall, dark stranger had conjured up. And then she headed for the showers where she could finish what he started.

 

 

Methos picked up his paintbrush reluctantly, noting with some relief that it had that slick, animated quality about it that went with the virtual reality experience. The whole room had an artificial look to it, and he began to daub electronic paint onto his unreal canvas as he glanced at Elektra. 

"I thought about what you said the last time," she murmured, studying her delicate hands as they lay in her lap. "About who I'd like to be." She smoothed her long skirt over her legs with a trace of pain wrinkling her brow. "I'd like to be normal, Nicholas. Just like everybody else. I'd like to walk down the corridors and greet people, and see them smile at me. I'd like to look after myself and not depend on others to see to my every need. I want to live, just to enjoy being alive. Or else I want to die. I want the pain to stop. I can't bear it anymore." 

"Your body is handicapped, then," he assumed, and then it registered.  What had been bothering him about her virtual image was that she never seemed to walk. Her feet were hidden by long skirts, and she seemed to glide across the floor with an unnatural smoothness that meant she did not know what it was to take a step, to walk under her own power. 

"Oh, it's much worse than that, I assure you," Elektra returned bitterly. Great tears welled up in her eyes, but she did not allow them to fall. "I'm a horror, Nicholas. An abomination. That's evident in the faces of everyone who sees my body, which is why Beatrix wanted you to work with me here. It isn't for my benefit, but for yours. To spare you the sight of me." 

Her self-revulsion hit him like a wave of nausea, and he wondered if emotions could travel through the electronic circuits of the computer that connected them to each other.

"There are those who have said the same thing of _me,_ dear child," he admitted quietly. 

Methos saw her image shatter, forming into a gargantuan monster with sharp teeth and gelatinous skin that revealed every organ and bone beneath it. She roared at him in sudden rage, but he did not cease his calm application of paint to virtual canvas. "You don't scare me, Elektra," he told her patiently. "And you won't garner my pity with your disability, either. I want to help you learn to adjust to your differences, so please stop trying to threaten me and let's get back to the project at hand. Shall we?" 

"You can't help me, Nicholas," Elektra bit out harshly, shrinking back to her waif-shape instantly. "Unless you help me die. Are you willing to do that?"

"You know I can't." 

"Then this exercise is pointless," she snapped and vanished from the studio, leaving the bitter taste of her despair on his tongue as he removed the headset and opened his eyes. 

Beatrix's voice came over the intercom in the VR booth. "Please keep your seat, Nicholas. I'll try to get her back online with you in a few minutes." 

Methos closed his eyes, still weary from the previous day and all the paperwork he had done late into night. He could sympathize with the girl, knew the same sensation of self-loathing that she did. He had triumphed over most of the hang-ups of being an Immortal in a world of the dying, but the look on the faces of those mortals who saw him reanimate and called him demon never blunted. The pain was always there, just beneath the surface. It was one reason his kind kept to the shadows, made few friends and rarely if ever shared their unnatural secret with even the most trusted mortals. 

He could feel her pain because he had experienced it first-hand for centuries. He put the headset back on and settled into a fantasy of his own, working backward in his memory to try to recall the early days millennia before, back when there were no history books to record life, when one survived only as a part of a group of others who could hunt together and protect each other from the ravages of wild beasts. Dressed in animal skins, he stood alone on the crest of a hill, a primitive spear in his hand, a bone knife at his hip. Scanning the horizon, he watched a group of hunters stalking an enormous antelope, and he recalled a deep sense of loneliness welling up in him. They had been his people once, until he was outcast. He couldn't even remember what their tribe had been called. 

"What are we doing?" asked a tiny voice beside him. 

Methos glanced over and saw the waif standing there, her head down and eyes closed so she wouldn't have to see the vast expanse of sky above them. Instantly he returned them to the comfortable studio with its low ceiling and plaster walls reflecting the fire in a canvas of amber light and umber shadows. 

"I'm glad you decided to work with me again, Elektra," said Methos quietly, and he realized he truly was pleased that she had returned to the simulation. "I think we can make some real progress, if you'll allow me to help you achieve your potential." 

Elektra lifted her chin and met his eyes with her own, which smoldered with anger and turned visibly black as she stared back. 

"Achieve my _potential?"_ she repeated incredulously. She laughed bitterly, with an edge that could have chiseled marble. "You have _no_ idea, Nicholas." 

He watched her body change shape yet again, growing taller until she towered over him, fleshing out in toned muscle and feminine curves, her face glowing with righteous fury. 

"This is what they want me to become," she snarled, her voice husky now with passion and rage. "This is the _potential_ they want me to achieve!" 

The blackness of her eyes filled with light as if someone had lit a flare inside a jack o'lantern. The crackle of electricity filled the air, making his virtual hair stand on end, and suddenly erratic snakes of blue light began to dance across her form. She extended her hand and pointed at the easel before him, and a bolt of lightning shot from her fingertips and connected with the wooden frame and canvas, setting them aflame in a burst of heat and electricity. 

 _"This_ is what they want me to be, Nicholas!" she growled. "They've been training me for it all my life, but I can't do it. I know the theorems, have studied naturally occurring electricity in other creatures, but I can't do it. They allow me to work on other projects, of course, to keep me occupied. But I can't be this weapon they think I am. I can't _do_ it. I've tried." 

"Oh, my God!" Method understood at once. All the pieces fell into place with that vision, and his first instinct was to lay hands on the device attached to his head and push it off. He resisted, clenching his hands into fists at his sides.

"You see?" Elektra whimpered, suddenly ashamed. "Now you're like the others."

"No, I'm not." Methos took a deep breath and tried to steady himself, rebuilding the virtual canvas and easel quickly. He laid down his paintbrush and palette and hurried to stand beside her, aware of how careful he had to be with his words now that he knew she was the one they were seeking. "You're how old now, Elektra?"

"I don't know," she answered morosely. "Young. Beatrix says so, anyway."

"Then this image isn't appropriate for you just yet," he said cagily. "Let's give you something a little more mid-range to get you started. All right?"

Elektra shrugged.

Methos picked up his paintbrush and began to paint thin air, laying on the colors to create the image of a teenage girl with light brown hair and gray-blue eyes. He clothed her in a T-shirt and blue jeans, worn tennis shoes, and as a last detail he painted a blue lightning bolt tattoo on her upper left arm.

"How's this for starters?" he asked, stepping back with a warm smile. 

The image of the waif disappeared, and the painted figure animated suddenly, glancing down at itself and trying out the limbs.

"Is this what I'm supposed to look like?" she queried hesitantly. "I wasn't sure."

That struck a note of curiosity in Methos, and he began to wonder what sort of birth defects this young Immortal might bear. Before he would be able to smuggle her out of The Centre, he would need to know what infirmities or limitations her physical condition might warrant. Since she couldn't walk on her own, he might have to arrange a wheelchair or other transportation to get her to the drop point where MacLeod and Jarod would be waiting to collect her. The rescue was still unplanned at that point, and until Methos knew more about her limitations, they still couldn't finish planning the operation.

He assured her that she was the epitome of an average teenage girl of the day, and then drew up some alternate designs for girls of eras past. He teased her, made her laugh, and soon both of them forgot the point of the experiment and simply enjoyed the pleasant company and good conversation. Methos began to paint her again, this time on the canvas, and once more the sensations of the virtual experience faded into reality. Only this time, he barely noticed. 

Until his stomach rumbled its protest and reminded him how long it had been since he had eaten. 

Reluctantly he ended the session with a promise to start early the following day, and disconnected himself from the machine to go order a meal from Nutrition Services, which would be delivered to his office a short time later. Roaming back over his memories of the session, he began to make notes on Elektra, and to work on designing a personality for her that would suit Centre purposes and his own. He would need her to be ready for the outside world by the time he took her out into it.

 

 

Duncan finished the training session with a short lecture on awareness, though he knew that most of it would be lost on his students. They were the sort who made it through their lives on muscle alone, rarely thinking their way through anything. A smarter opponent who combined strategy with technique would make short work of all of them because they relied too much on brawn and didn't apply their brains. The Centre preferred such types for security inside the facility, because those who asked questions and gave thought to what they saw there could become a threat. The Scot was careful about how much intelligence he demonstrated, and made a concerted effort to avoid appearing curious about anything he encountered within those blond stone walls. 

After he sent his troops to the showers, he pulled off his sweatshirt and started to practice forms. Bronzed body moving with the grace and power of a stalking tiger, he clawed at an invisible opponent, swept his feet out from under him and delivered a fatal blow to his throat. Another shadow attacked him and he rolled away, coming up on one foot and stepping forward to project a devastating thrust with both hands that sent his imaginary partner flying. 

He stopped in mid-stride at the sound of slow clapping coming from the gymnasium doorway, and turned to see Miss Parker sauntering seductively toward him. He picked up a towel from nearby and wiped his face with it, eyeing her and estimating how much of her grooming and choice of clothing was unconscious preference and how much was intentional allure. He smiled softly as she neared him, and watched as she leaned back against the wall, her pelvis thrust slightly forward in invitation. 

"Bravo," she cheered flatly. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone better, Mac. What the hell are you doing working here?" 

His smile vanished, and he picked up his shirt and put it on again, aware of her eyes caressing his naked torso as he moved. 

"I got tired of constant change," he answered casually. "Working for the highest bidder and never knowing what city I was going to wake up in got old after a while. I decided it was time to settle down." 

She grinned. "How domestic," she returned with a trace of sarcasm. "Ready to snare a placid little woman to keep your house and bear you a couple of screaming brats, eh? What a picture that conjures up." 

He rolled his eyes and shook his head. "I have no intention of dying young from sheer boredom," he shot back. "I just wanted a place where I could indulge myself in my favorite pastimes without giving up the type of work I do best."

Miss Parker let her eyes roam over him from feet to head in an obviously judgmental fashion. "And what hobbies, pray tell, do you indulge in that need such stability?" She leaned away from the wall and began to walk in a slow circle around him, studying him from every angle.

He stifled a chuckle. "You mean, besides sex? I restore old airplanes and antique cars. Both of those require a lot of space, both for the vehicles themselves, and for the machine shop where I make the parts I need to get them running. They're not exactly portable projects, now, are they?"

She stopped right in front of him, a foot away, and made eye contact. "I've been looking over your records, and I think we could use your skills in another department, if you're interested." 

He shrugged. "Depends. I'm pretty satisfied where I am. The hours are great, the responsibilities are easy without being boring, and I don't have to kill anybody on a regular basis." 

A husky laugh escaped her. "A man with a sense of humor. I like that."

Duncan eased slowly closer, all but closing the space between them. "Look. You know you're a beautiful, desirable woman, and any man in his right mind would be going crazy right now to accept the invitation you're offering. But the rules here are simple. No fraternization, period. Don't make me have to turn you in for trying." 

Ice glittered in the depths of her eyes, and she tilted her chin upward, so close now she could feel his breath on her lips. 

"That's not what I'm offering," she said coldly. "And if I did want you in my bed, don't think I couldn't arrange it without the slightest repercussions. Are we clear?" 

"As crystal," he returned casually. "So what _is_ the offer?" 

"I'm in need of another sweeper on my team. There's some travel involved, but not that often. And when you're not on the road with me, you could maintain the status quo here in your current position." 

The edge in her voice aroused him, but then everything in her demeanor since she had entered the room had been designed to do just that. He knew the game she was playing, had played it himself for hundreds of years with other women of power, and he knew exactly what the next move should be. She wanted him to show her if he was biddable or in control, and only one thing would properly demonstrate the spine she was seeking. 

He grasped a handful of her hair at the nape of her neck and crushed her against him in a demanding kiss that left her breathless and dizzy. Her next move would be to slap him for his impertinence, and he braced himself for the sting.

She chuckled softly, reached down between them and gave him a squeeze where he least expected it, reveling in the shocked surprise registering on his face.

"I guess that's a yes," she surmised, and started to walk away. 

"Sorry, Miss Parker," he shot back as soon as he recovered his wits. His dignity would be a while in catching up. "I came here so I could stay in one place. I don't want to do any traveling. I could make some suggestions regarding the other guards if you tell me what qualifications you're looking for, exactly." 

The look she turned on him then could have frozen fire. "If I want you, I get you, Mac. Your orders will be coming down in a day or two." 

"Why me?" he demanded, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Because you have a brain," she snapped. "And I need to have sweepers who can do more than take up space assisting me on my current assignment. If you're as smart as I think you are, then you'll stop protesting and go along for the ride."

He smiled then, sweeping her blatantly with a lustful gaze of his own. "I love a good ride, Miss Parker," he assured her softly. 

"Be careful," she advised, her ire cooling suddenly as she plucked at his shirt. "You might get what you wish for." 

She pivoted on her spiked heel and strode slowly out of the spacious room, her hips swaying in an unmistakable demand for attention.

And she had every reason to believe she got it until she was completely out of sight.

 

 

Jarod stood on the deck, binoculars in hand, watching the beautiful building for signs of movement, as he did every day. Weeks had passed with little contact from the team they had sent in, and he was growing edgy. Adam and Duncan left frequent voice mails at the coded accounts they had set up, just to let Shima Wataru know that they were still alive, but they couldn't afford to leave any real information recorded there, since it was possible that their phone lines were monitored. 

But today was different, and Jarod's sense of anticipation was vibrating within him. Adam Pierson's last message had been a specially coded one requesting a meeting, and somewhere in the Blue Cove harbor, he had climbed aboard a sailboat registered in the name of Nicholas Hosta, and was sailing toward the fleet on the lovely, breezy summer day. Once out of sight of Centre buildings, a Wataru sailor would board his boat and Adam would take over the controls of a speedboat, and soon he would be aboard the _Tiamet,_ Shima Wataru's ocean liner, giving his first report. 

Jarod turned to the east as the sound of a marine engine plucked at his attention, and saw Adam piloting his borrowed boat along the seaward side of the liner. The Pretender hurried downstairs and into the audience room, knowing Adam would be on his way there to meet with him and the goddess.  

He listened intently as the other man told about his discovery of Elektra, and the vision he had seen inside the virtual landscape.

Jarod fixed Shima with a frank gaze and said, "I need to get back inside The Centre if we're going to get the girl out." 

Shima shook her head. "That is out of the question. We cannot risk losing our best source of information on this place to the people who run it." 

"I've been thinking about that. There's a place inside where I'll be perfectly safe. I'll be able to communicate with Adam through the virtual device, either while he's waiting for Elektra to come online, or after he's finished his sessions with her. Through the system, I'll be able to track down where she's being held, and figure out a way to get to her. We have to have a plan, and I can't design one when I can't tell Adam and Duncan what they'll have to do or where to go." 

"I can't imagine anyplace in there where you could hide, Jarod," said Methos disbelievingly. "The walls have ears and eyes." 

"And assholes," Jarod shot back, grinning. "But there's one place no one ever goes. Only a handful of people even know it exists. Sub Level 27." 

"There are only 26 levels below ground," Methos corrected. "I've studied the schematics and floor plans myself." 

"You won't find SL27 on any reference. It was built without the knowledge of everyone but the architect, who is now deceased, and the Tower. The subjects who lived on SL27 weren't supposed to ever leave there. Not alive, anyway." Jarod's dark eyes glittered with contained hatred. "And no one ever questioned a few extra bodies here and there. There were a lot of those, you know." 

"Failed experiments?" asked Methos, his upper lip curling in a revolted sneer.

Jarod nodded. "I can set up shop down there and monitor everything until time for the escape. I could even stay down there till the heat's off, and no one will ever know I was there, except you two."

Shima turned to Methos and began conversing in a language so ancient no living mortal had heard it, but Jarod surmised the content of the discussion.

"You can trust me," he promised. "I don't know why you want to rescue this child from The Centre, but I'll do everything I can to help. I have a long range plan to set all their captives free, but I can't pull it off all at once. Anybody I can help save along the way will be a bonus." 

The goddess fixed him with a hopeful smile, and tears sprang into her eyes. "Then I will trust you, Jarod. All my hopes go with you." 

"How will you get in?" asked Methos. 

The Pretender smiled, boyish mischief dancing in his eyes. "The same way I got out," he returned cryptically. "A box of equipment will be delivered to your office shortly. If you can see to it that it's stored on Sub Level 26 temporarily, then I'll have less to carry in with me. Think you can do that without arousing suspicion?"  

"If I have any trouble getting it there, how can I contact you to tell you where it is?"

"If you can't get it to 26, then just leave it in your office. I'll take it from there." Jarod reached out and shook his partner's hand. Moments later he and Shima were seeing Methos back to his borrowed speed boat, and Jarod began reeling off a list of supplies he would need for an extended visit to the bowels of the underground complex. By nightfall everything was ready, and Jarod strapped on a backpack filled with essentials, and made his way into the ventilation system that would give him access to every floor below the surface. 

Hours later he emerged into the dank machinery closet, a huge room that held the motors for controlling the elevators, air conditioning units the size of small houses, gigantic water heaters which supplied the entire complex, major power grids and electricity generators that provided backup power to operate the most necessary equipment in case of a blackout. Only the maintenance crews ever went there, and no one ever went into the sewers at that level, so the entrance to SL27 had remained in its perfect disguise for years, completely untouched, until Sydney, Miss Parker and Broots had discovered the hatch a few months before.

Jarod knew the maintenance crews would be off duty at that hour, and he moved his gear to the hatch without fear of discovery. He unscrewed the seal on the hatch and gagged at the stench, but he had been in worse smelling places before, bracing himself against the odor, and went down the ladder, sealing the hatch from the inside.

By flashlight he explored the dank corridor, taking note of the charred remains of equipment and furnishings littering the floor. He chose a cell that was drier than the others and began to unpack, pleased that the bunk and work table were still in relatively usable condition. He had prepared himself for this descent into Hell, steeling himself against the emotions a return to The Centre would bring with it. He forced himself to concentrate on the mission and the work he had to do in order to get through it. But sitting on that child-sized bed with the scent of death in his nostrils made him edgy and nauseous, and after an hour of connecting his laptop computer to the main system, he had to take a break and move, go somewhere to bleed off the tension building up in his body. 

He wandered down the corridor and found the desolate simulation lab, and stood in the doorway, horror-struck, as images of possibilities coursed through his imagination. A child had been born there against its mother's will, and other children had played there, even been imprisoned in the steel cage when being punished for some infraction. Jarod picked up one of the syringes lying in a pile on the floor, and wondered what had been done with them. If there were traces of drugs still in them, he might model an idea regarding what they had been used for, but after 15 years the chances of identifying much, if any, of the residue would be well nigh impossible. 

His stomach protested the ramifications of the sight, and Jarod forced himself out of the room. He stood in the corridor outside, sweat running down his face and into his eyes, his belly threatening to erupt. He couldn't allow his mind to continue down the path where that room led him, and forced himself back to the cell. He had work to do, and his hands trembled as he tapped into the computer system and began to search through Broots' files for traces of the information he needed. He was not aware of the tears that slid down his face as he worked, or how his lips quivered with every breath as the images continued to reel in the dark recesses of his consciousness. He would recall them later in his dreams, when he did not have as much control over the thoughts that brought him such terror in the dark hours of night. 

 

 

Methos settled into the chair, fastened on the headset and other equipment, and closed his eyes. He wanted a moment to himself, to compose his thoughts and review what he wanted to accomplish with the session. Centre directives were at odds with his conscience, and he was having a difficult time keeping his emotions out of the equation as he worked with Elektra.   She was ever the enigma, so innocent it pained him at times, yet possessing a cynicism every bit the equal of his own. He found that unusual for a child of a mere 15 years, and could not help but wonder what physical infirmity could have engendered such world-weariness in one so young. 

He set up the studio where Elektra felt most comfortable working with him, and while he waited for her to arrive he prowled the room, searching for some communiqué from Jarod. There was a pile of drawings on a table, some rolled up and tied with string, and others laid out, the beautiful parchment glowing with warm color as it reflected the candle light and lamps in the room. One of them caught his eye and he lifted it, examining the fine strokes in the architectural drawing. It appeared to be a tower of some sort, but very high for the age in which the studio had been set. 

The tower was 19 stories tall, and a crude layout of the top floor had a curious mark in it, rather like a lightning bolt. He smiled to himself and memorized the layout, guessing that the tower design reflected the underground floors. Elektra's room would be on Sub Level 19, at the far end of the corridor. He was surprised by how tiny the room was, barely big enough for a twin sized bed and a few other pieces of furniture, but then, many of the children he had seen there were housed in jail cells with little or no creature comforts to brighten their dismal lives. Evidently Elektra rated no better than the other children, despite the importance placed on her project classification. 

Methos rolled up the parchment and secured it with string, then returned to the canvas where he had begun painting Elektra. With the magic of his virtual paintbrush he began to daub at the fabric, and after a few moments he found himself engrossed in the portrait. He lightly sketched in additional views of siren, waif and elder that Elektra had shown him on other occasions, intending to go back and fill them in once she appeared. 

Only the person who arrived a few minutes later was not Elektra, but a stranger that Methos guessed was her manager.

"What can I do for you?" Methos asked lightly, glancing away from the woman to his palette and mixing a little yellow ochre with some burnt sienna for a shadow along Elektra's neck beneath her fair hair. 

"She won't come today, Nicholas," said the woman flatly. "She wants to see you in person." 

"I don't have a problem with that," he returned, and started cleaning his brushes.

The woman came close and laid her hand on his shoulder. "You don't understand. No one is allowed to see her without a directive from the Tower."

Methos frowned. "Then I can't very well work with her, can I?" he shot back sourly. He found himself reaching for the headset impatiently, but halted before disconnecting. "Look, I know you're trying. But obviously this child needs more intensive work than the approved medium is providing. I suggest you speak with whomever is in charge and get this taken care of so I can do my job. I want to help her function properly. I think Elektra wants it, too. But there's obviously an obstacle between us, and I think it may well be this equipment. She needs to know that I can accept her as she is. She needs to see that in my face when I look at her _as she is."_  

The woman shook her head, her eyes closing briefly. Her face blanked out, except for her mouth, to keep her expression closed to him. "You _can't_ accept her as she is," the woman stated certainly. _"No one can."_

Memories surfaced unbidden in his mind, pictures of unfortunate individuals long buried in his past, misshapen people cursed and brutalized through no fault of their own, other than some accident of fate that occurred before they were born. Some of them tore at him, for he had been among those delivering pain or death to the quasimodos of ages past. The memories saddened him, but he steeled himself against the superstitious soul of long distant yesterdays. 

"I can," he assured her. 

Hands touched his body, and the headset was pulled from him. The virtual room disappeared abruptly, and suddenly he was taken from the booth and hustled down the hall to a tiny, poorly lit room. Strangers fired questions at him designed to unnerve, confuse and shake his confidence, and occasionally they did manage to catch him off guard and pry a truth out of him, but to his credit they were benign answers that would not put him or his false identity in any danger. After several hours he was permitted to leave the interrogation, and had a meal in his office while he worked on his notes. 

And then she came for him. The woman who had invaded his aborted session with Elektra eased quietly into his office and introduced herself as Beatrix as she sat down in the chair on the far side of his desk. She did not smile. Her face was an emotionless mask, not the slightest glimmer of feeling expressing itself in her eyes or the corners of her mouth. She might have been an android, if he had thought such things possible enough to approximate the appearance of life.

"Elektra wants to see you in person," Beatrix told him flatly. "She likes you, which is unusual in and of itself. In all the time I've been her caretaker, she has expressed nothing but acid tolerance of others in her presence. This could be a good sign." Now there was a gleam of danger in the woman's cold gray eyes. "Or a very bad one. It would not do for her to become attached to you, or vice versa." 

Methos lifted his chin and gazed down his nose at her haughtily. "I am a professional, madam," he assured her. "I know how to keep a professional distance from my patients." 

Beatrix shook her head again. "You won't with _this_ one," she argued coolly. "Elektra is like no one you have ever encountered before in your life." 

He chuckled softly to himself. "I dunno. I've seen... quite a lot, in my life."

"I'm going to suggest to the Tower that you be allowed in, Nicholas," she said flatly. "But you must understand that, if it does not go well, there could be... serious repercussions." 

He smiled, but it was a brittle one filled with unvarnished acceptance of harsh reality. "I understand," he said softly. "But I'm very good." 

"I hope you are," she whispered as she leaned over the desktop toward him. "For your sake, as well as hers."

_END OF PART II_


	3. Immortal Quest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once Methos meets Elektra in person, Jarod creates an escape plan to free her from The Centre, but they may not all get out alive.

The two Immortals had a brief visit in the woods, seemingly crossing paths again to keep in touch. Duncan had been able to convince his superiors that The Centre would be best served keeping him there to provide better training for the sweepers rather than forcing him to waste time sitting in hotel rooms while Miss Parker went roaming. But he also knew that bucking or even protesting orders would also mean more scrutiny on him from internal surveillance. His hands might be tied in providing anything but bodily assistance during the upcoming rescue, but if it took long enough he might be able to garner a fraction more trust, which would enable him to do some snooping on the computer system. Jarod was supposed to be taking care of that, but no one had heard a word from him since he descended into the ventilation shaft a few days earlier. 

That made Duncan nervous, but since there was no reaction to his presence by Centre personnel, the odds were in his favor that no discovery had yet been made.

Methos strolled slowly back to the blond stone building, his head down and hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers, thinking about Elektra and how he might be able to smuggle her out. The Wataru would be waiting at the shore as soon as he signaled them to come, and once on board the _Tiamet,_ Elektra would be safe.  But he had no clue how to get an invalid out of the depths of The Centre, across the expanse of rocky shoreline, and into the hands of her saviors without getting at least one of them killed in the process. Not that getting shot worried Methos, for he would revive soon after. But if Elektra died, she would be 15 years old forever. She should have a chance to grow up first, and hopefully to repair her infirmities, if possible, to give her a chance at a somewhat normal life. Shima Wataru would provide that. They were sisters, after all.

Which brought up another interesting point for his contemplation. Shima had confessed to knowing her mother, and having seen her again after millennia. Immortals were not supposed to be able to have children... but apparently some of them could. That was the only explanation. 

Or _was_ it? 

No one really knew where they came from, after all.

He kept turning the question over and over in his mind as he strode into the foyer, presented his identification and placed his hand on the scanner for fingerprint confirmation. The elevator carried him down to his office and he sat numbly behind his desk for a while before the irritating beep of incoming mail on his computer pulled him from his reverie. He read the message and deleted it immediately, then set to work on his routine case files.

Just after lunch, Beatrix came up to him in the corridor outside his office.  She steered him to the elevator and down to Sub Level 19 for a face-to-face meeting with the enigmatic child. The nanny showed him into her office first and sat him down at a work table where a DSA reader had been placed, ready to run.

"What's this?" Methos asked, frowning. "I thought I was going to meet my patient."

"First you must understand why Elektra is important," Beatrix returned coolly. "She is unlike anyone you will ever meet in your lifetime. This entire level is devoted strictly to researching her and her capabilities. She tires easily, so we have to do some of the work while she's sleeping. But the Tower felt that, if you were to advance with your work, this step is necessary. It will also, however, mean that you are a much greater security risk and will no longer be allowed to leave the grounds, until such time as we can be certain of your loyalty."

Methos sighed, feeling the walls closing in over his head. "Understood," he said wearily.

Beatrix placed a small iridescent plastic disk into the reader and started the recording. "This is Elektra's birth," she intoned as the chaotic scene in the sim lab of Sub Level 27 flashed onto the screen. "We had no reason to believe that her mother was in any way special or different, other than that she was highly intelligent and artistically gifted. Since she had mated with a top scientist of the day, we considered their offspring a viable candidate for our research.  We had no idea..." Her voice shook and ended on a strangled sigh.

Methos asked no questions. He was transfixed, staring at the face of the lovely blonde woman struggling against the restraints, against the will of her body, and failing. He could see a definite resemblance to Shima - the upward-slanted eyes and high cheekbones, the pale hair and slender frame - but the birth process swept away his momentary comparison and he stared open-mouthed as the lightning began to curl away from the baby's head as it emerged into view.

"My God," he breathed, in rapt wonder. He had never seen an Immortal being born before, and doubted anyone else throughout history had, either. The woman would have sought out solitude, knowing what a display the birth would create in the elements. But he watched in horrified silence as the obstetrician murdered the woman with overdoses of morphine and carried the baby out of the burning room. Moments later the screen went black as the flames melted the wires feeding the surveillance camera, but not before the image of the beautiful dead woman chained to the table was implanted firmly in his psyche.

"Andromeda," he mumbled to himself. Another beautiful lady chained down and sacrificed for others, he knew that she would have revived in that terrible place all alone, not knowing what had happened to her child, and unable to search without risking her own safety.

"What?" asked Beatrix sharply.

"Oh, nothing," said Methos with a shrug. "I'm astounded. You're sure the child is responsible for the lightning? It seemed to me that the mother was the one issuing threats." The speed with which he fell back into the role of scientist left him queasy.

"We're certain," Beatrix said firmly. "Now you see why we have kept her here for study all these years? And that isn't even the most unusual thing about her."

Methos put a hand to his head, fearing the worst. "What is that?" he asked wearily.  "The baby seemed perfectly normal in the video."

"Come with me," Beatrix commanded.

Methos rose and followed her down the corridor to a small room completely enclosed in glass, but with window shades drawn all the way to the floor. Ten feet away he felt it, that sensation of pressure and nausea that no longer drew a visible reaction from him except to search for the presence of the Other that was somewhere nearby.

Only this time he didn't have to search. Part of him wilted, knowing that Elektra was already an Immortal, only she would have no knowledge of that secret. She would be frightened and ill, and he would have to calm her first. He prepared himself to face her and watched as Beatrix opened the door and stepped inside.

A high pitched wailing caught at his ears and he stumbled as a sudden realization hit him. He hurried inside and froze the moment he stepped across the threshold and saw her.  An ancient prayer echoed in his mind as he hoped he would not see what he feared.

Elektra was sitting in a padded chair, warmly dressed but in obvious distress. Her body was curled up in a ball, but after a moment the nausea passed and she settled back and looked at him, her blue-brown eyes unfocused but filled with a look of rage. Her skin flushed red and her doll's mouth pressed together in a thin white line.

"I knew you'd be like the rest," she mouthed angrily, and turned away from him.

Methos gathered his wits quickly and approached her chair, sitting down beside her on the floor.

"Just a bit of a surprise, Elektra," he said evenly, sorrow and compassion warming his voice. "You aren't quite what I expected. But I can understand you much better than you think."

Elektra gave a breezy little laugh. "You have a gift for understatement," she said slowly, knowing it would be difficult for him to understand her corrupted speech.

He smiled and placed his left elbow on the table between them, resting his chin in his palm as he gazed frankly at her. "You look like your mother," he said casually, then instantly regretted it.

"We are not permitted to speak about that subject," Beatrix snapped.

Elektra's eyes narrowed and she spat out angrily, "Leave us alone, Beatrix!"

"It isn't allowed, Elek--"

Elektra's face darkened to crimson with bottled fury. "Out!" she demanded.

Beatrix gave another hasty warning to Methos and left the room in a huff.

He turned compassionate eyes on the child, and began to talk with her about ordinary things, and watched her relax into a friendship that neither of them had expected, but neither of them could refuse. Two hours later, Methos exited the room on his own to allow his patient to sleep, and sauntered down to Beatrix's office where she awaited him with a stern, displeased face.

Methos smiled winningly. "I think we've made significant progress today," he announced with a note of pride. "I'd like to start coming by to visit Elektra on a daily basis, just for a few minutes at a time, and continue to work with her in the virtual realm. I think I'll have her back on track with her work shortly."

Beatrix frowned at him in disbelief.

"But I would like to see that recording again, if you don't mind," Methos suggested casually. "There might be something I missed the first time 'round."

Without a word Beatrix ran the DSA again and Methos watched the delivery with unshakable concentration. With lightning dancing all over the emerging baby, he watched the obstetrician's hands and saw the terrified man's fingers grip the infant's neck and head clumsily, slipping against the mucous, blood and amniotic fluid and, without knowing, break the child's neck at the moment of birth. The image of the teenager sitting in her infant's carrier was forever burned on his memory, for Elektra had never aged past the moment of her birth. She had the awareness and intelligence of a grown woman, forever trapped in the body of a newborn babe.

Of course The Centre had thought her special! But they would never have out of her the weapon they wanted, and if she stayed much longer they would realize more than the simple fact that Elektra wasn't growing. Eventually they would realize she was immortal, and the sharks would descend upon her in full force, shredding what was left of mind and soul in the interest of scientific discovery. Her rescue was of vital importance, and the sooner, the better.

Methos smiled again and gave Beatrix a nod of approval. "Thank you very much. I'd appreciate a copy of Elektra's schedule so I can plan around her needs. This is an exciting project, isn't it?"

He left the room without further discussion, hit the elevator and returned to his office. But as he sat down at his desk he noticed his hands trembling and felt the pain welling up in his soul, and knew that he could not stop it in the solitude of the empty room. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he embraced his head as he leaned forward on his desk, sobbing in the quiet, forgetting for the moment that the walls were watching.

And when he was done with weeping, he wiped his face, opened the appropriate computer file and went to work with his plan for helping Elektra grow.

 

 

Jarod laid his body down on the mildew-scented bunk and waited. He had been cruising in the virtual program all morning, waiting for Adam Pierson to arrive and checking to make sure his security measures would hold and keep him invisible to everyone except his contact. He listened in on other training sessions and gleaned more Centre secrets, and enjoyed a private game with Broots as he did a routine security check on the device. It was fun, and he missed the challenge when the tech went off-line, but moments later Jarod watched Adam materialize, unaware of his presence, in a sunlit studio from a time long ago. 

The Pretender watched Pierson rummage through the scrolls again, looking for another message, and Jarod took that moment to make his appearance. He chose the shape of a scarlet and gold macaw, sitting on a perch in the corner, which he had created himself. 

"Hello," he cawed hoarsely to get Adam's attention.

It had the desired effect. Methos came over to the perch and cocked his head curiously. "Hello," he returned hesitantly.

"It's me," Jarod said in his own voice. "Right now the monitors are watching you paint at that easel over there." The macaw motioned with its head toward the canvas near the window. "I can speak freely until Elektra arrives, but you're still being watched in the VR booth, so you'll have to be careful what you say. What have you found out?"

"Right now, speed is everything," Methos replied as if contemplating out loud. "I should be able to achieve my goal with only a few items of support. Now, what tools will I need?" He produced an empty toolbox, a small motorized wheelchair and an inflatable baby doll for the Pretender's view.

"I don't understand," said Jarod, his macaw's feet walking him from side to side on the perch.

"This is the first step," said Methos tightly, "that will get Elektra and I where we want to go. I'm doing my part, and I know she'll do hers. Let's just hope everyone else does theirs, too." He wished he could say more, but Jarod seemed to accept his odd request and understand the purpose immediately.

"I'll meet you again when I have a plan," Jarod agreed. "They're bringing her in now. Small, eh?" He bobbed his macaw's head and squawked loudly, and Methos strolled over to the easel and picked up his paintbrush, laying a few strokes of paint on the virtual canvas.

Elektra arrived as the waif again, and came to look over his shoulder at the painting Jarod had provided them.

Methos smiled as he recognized Shima's lovely face on Botticelli's _Venus_ painting, the goddess standing on a sea shell, her long platinum blonde hair blown back from her face and one hand clutching a lock of it across her lower abdomen modestly.

"Who's this?" asked Elektra curiously.

"She could be you," Methos replied. "But we mustn't limit ourselves here in this wonderful medium. Here you can be anything you want to be."

The macaw in the corner squawked and bobbed its head, as if agreeing.

Elektra shrugged. "Give me some ideas. My exposure to the world is rather limited."

"I'm sure your grasp of history is, also, and I don't intend to give you a history lesson along with the images, but let's say you were born 5,000 years ago."

He transformed into a hunter, his dark hair unkempt, his clothes crudely made of rawhide and fur. He held a bone-tipped spear in his hand, and his face was painted half blue, half white.

"If you were a male, you'd be a hunter. Females were gatherers and keepers of children. And there were all sorts of animals to contend with on a daily basis. Survival was never a sure thing from moment to moment."

The studio became a cave lit with torches along the walls, and a large fire lit up the darkness. An enormous bear came charging out of the surrounding blackness and swiped a huge paw at his head. He fell and rolled onto his back, trying to regain his feet, but the bear had him by the throat in an instant. He took his spear and shoved it into the bear's side, and watched as the creature flung itself backward in rage and pain.

Methos sprang to his feet and wiped a hand across his damaged throat, sealing up the wound and making it vanish. He charged the bear and yanked the spear free, then jabbed it into the animal over and over until it lay still. He smiled down at it.

"I think I could learn to like this virtual reality stuff after all," he said quietly. "You don't know how long I've wanted to do that!"

"Kill that thing?" asked Elektra.

"Well, he killed me first," Methos argued. "It was only fair." He reanimated the bear and made it docile, following along behind him like a puppy. "You could be anything. This bear. A dinosaur. Velociraptor, maybe. I rather liked Archaeopteryx best, though."

"You've lost me."

He cocked his head. "I'll need a little space. All right?"

She backed away, curious to see what magic he would perform next, what creature he would summon from his vast experience. "All right. I'm ready."

The cave grew, its roof expanding higher and higher until it was gone, lost in a wash of black velvet shadow all around them. The vastness gave her a sense of vertigo, and she made herself a seat similar to the carrier that was her day chair, and held onto the sides.

Methos drew one of Steven Spielberg's malevolent velociraptors out of the darkness, and a pair of them hovered in the shadows behind him.

"These things died off millions of years ago, or evolved into something else. No one knows for sure." He patted one of the monsters on its leathery head, and it rubbed against him in approval. "But they were feared, conquerors wherever they roamed. Unless T. Rex moved into the neighborhood."

The earth shook as the great dinosaur came forward, its sharp-toothed mouth opening above Methos's head in a trumpeting roar. "Fabulous, isn't it?" The beast stalked back the way it had come, and Methos smiled as he saw the incredulous expression on the girl's face. She was positively vibrating with excitement, and didn't know how to discharge it.

"Try clapping when you see something you like," he suggested.

Elektra's small hands slapped together in imitation of his example, and she gave him a hearty round of applause.

Ah, but now we come to the first of its kind," Methos said with a twinkle in his green eyes. "Before Archaeopteryx, there were no such things as feathers. There was no true flight, just gliding. Archaeopteryx was the true master of the dinosaurs, the first to reach for the sky and conquer it."

Methos held up an arm, and a falconer's glove covered his hand and forearm up to his elbow. Out of the darkness a pair of wings whispered overhead, and the great creature swooped down and landed on his arm, almost dwarfing him by its sheer size. Its feathers were brightly colored, and it tilted its head back and crowed, showing off the tiny teeth that lined its beak.

"Oh!" gasped Elektra. "How beautiful!"

"And it flies," Methos reminded her. "It has no boundaries, no limits. It can go wherever it wants. Be the Archaeopteryx, Elektra. Learn to fly."

"I can't," she protested, her face draining of color as she contemplated the idea. "Open spaces..."

"I know. You're uncomfortable with the vastness. You feel as if you'll float away in it. But you won't because I won't let you. Will you trust me?"

She was silent, considering, unsure.

"Especially if I fly with you." He nudged the bird off his arm and into the sky, and feathers began to sprout through his primitive clothes. His whole shape changed, and he folded his wings and strolled closer to her throne, cocking his head sideways in question.

"We'll do it a little at a time, all right?" His voice sounded strange coming out of that pointy-toothed little beak.

Elektra was pale and trembling, but she nodded weakly and floated to a standing position. She copied the form her friend had taken and moved her wings experimentally. The whisper of feathers in wind caught her ears, and she couldn't help smiling.

"Now, close your eyes," Methos said gently. When she complied he changed the canopy to a cloudy blue sky, with soft grassy plains beneath their feet. "What's different now? What did I change?"

The smaller bird shrugged a wing. "It's brighter now."

"Listen to me before you open your eyes. I've put us outside, during the day. The sky is stretching over us, but your feet are firmly planted on the ground, as long as you want them to be. You aren't going anywhere, and you're always in complete control. Remember that."

"I will," she promised.

Methos worked with her for as long as her stamina would allow, let her break for a meal and a nap when necessary, and as soon as she roused he would start another session. When he felt weariness settle in on him he broke for the day and headed for the cafeteria for a meal. He sat down at a table alone once he had his tray filled, and began to eat without bothering to remove the dishes from the tray beneath. The food was reasonably good, but he tasted little of it, his mind awhirl with plans as he tried to concentrate on what he would put into his notes about the day's session. They were making progress, but by the time he released Elektra for the day, Jarod had delivered him a plan. It was simple, really, but that was what made it good. All that remained was to pass the information on to Duncan, and in less than a day Elektra would be free.

 

 

Jarod packed up the last of his equipment and stowed it in the bottom of a dead-end ventilation shaft. Everything was ready, all the preparations made, all the materials in place, except for one last thing. He eased his long body into the shaft and closed the screen behind himself, pushed the boxes down the narrow tunnel a little farther so they'd be out of sight from anyone peering through the grate, and turned back to the junction that would lead him up to higher floors.

Getting past the motion detectors was not that much of a problem since he had access to a computer override via his laptop, but the climb through the convoluted system would take him most of the day to accomplish, and he wanted to be near the surface when the escape took place. He had taken the liberty of stealing a security guard's uniform before going down the shaft, but was still uncertain if he was going to risk getting out during the melee or if he would wait for several hours in his hideaway and leave once the furor had died down. That would depend upon the measure of success Duncan and Adam had with getting Elektra up to the surface and out to the coastline. The Wataru would take it from there.

Once he reached his resting place he set up his laptop computer, sent the messages that would move his people into place and waited, watching the electronic activity of the hive below. Part of his mind could see Duncan rising from the computer terminal in his room, dressing in the security officer's uniform and meandering out of his quarters to Adam's office. From there, the two men would descend to Sub Level 19, bringing gifts of equipment to assist in Elektra's training. Adam would be pushing a specially designed electronic wheelchair loaded with cardboard boxes filled with monitoring devices, clothing and small food samples, for which he had obtained prior approval before carting the items downstairs. Since he couldn't bring everything by himself, Duncan would be carrying a small tool box which Adam would ostensibly use to make adjustments to the chair and assemble some of the special equipment he had brought.

The two men would arrive outside of Elektra's cubicle with its shades drawn, and Adam would take everything inside while Duncan stood watch outside, and after a moment Adam would return to take possession of the toolbox. Half an hour or so later, Adam would hand the toolbox with its precious cargo back to MacLeod, who would then return the way he had come, leaving the toolbox in the kneehole of Adam's desk to wait for his return. Then Duncan would go to the gym to fetch his sweaty workout clothes, which he would stuff into a black Centre-issue gym bag, and head for the exit door facing the coastline to await the last part of the magical illusion Jarod had designed for them.

The Pretender lay on his belly in the rectangular aluminum tunnel, watching the computer screen and ticking off the minutes as the simulation unreeled in his head.

 

 

Tony Pendergrass was ambitious. He had no intention of being a Centre goon for the rest of his life. Being under 30 might hinder his climb up the corporate ladder a little, since management tended to be graying and wrinkled, but he knew exactly what he wanted. He was going to be head of SIS one day, and working his way up through the ranks was the best way to prove himself. 

He sauntered down the corridor past the high, arched windows facing the ocean, but did not even spare a glance for the magnificent view. His eyes were busy, noting the faces of everyone he encountered during his patrol. A pretty young woman sat at the exit desk with another security guard standing at attention beside the door, and she smiled at him as he approached, but he merely gave her a nod of acknowledgment and let his eyes shift to the next figure in view, standing next to a bank of windows and watching the sunset. 

Always ready to gain a little extra notice of the higher-ups, he paused to greet his instructor. 

"Good afternoon, MacLeod," Pendergrass said evenly. "I haven't seen you on my patrol before." 

"I thought I might get more familiar with the buildings," the Scot returned casually. "This view is wonderful. I had to stop for a while to watch the sun set."

"Let me know if I can do anything for you," Pendergrass said, and stepped up to the window beside his trainer for a glance outside. If the boss could do it, so could he.

Both men turned at the sound of voices and watched as another man approached the exit from down the hallway. He had a black gym bag slung over his shoulder and carried a large cardboard box in his hands, just peeking over the top of the closed flaps.

MacLeod set his own gym bag down on the floor as he watched Methos greet the security guard by the door and head outside.

"Wait a minute!" snapped Pendergrass, turning toward the desk. "You can't leave without an inspection of your packages."

Methos hesitated at the doorway, and the other guard stepped between him and the exit. The Immortal sighed wearily.

"Look, there's nothing in here that anybody's going to miss," he protested. "I was cleaning out a file cabinet in my office and found some things that the previous tenant must have left there. I wanted to get rid of them without causing anyone embarrassment, least of all me."

"Sorry, Nicholas," said the young woman at the desk. "All packages must be inspected before anyone leaves the building. You know the rules."

Methos sighed and handed the box to the guard at the door, who promptly opened it and began to search through the papers and other assorted trash, including some girlie calendars and pornographic magazines that drew everyone's attention for a brief moment.

Duncan pushed his gym bag under the desk with his toe just as Methos unslung his and set it on the floor, quickly making the switch and placing his bag with its tiny occupant out of sight beneath the desk. After a comment by Pendergrass about the attributes of one of the models in the calendar, Methos picked up Duncan's bag and thrust it at him.

"Don't you want to inspect this, too?" he asked irritably.

Pendergrass made a quick but thorough search of the bag, his nose wrinkling at the scent, zipped it up and handed it back, turning his attention to a brief scan of the halls before rifling through the box again.

Methos dropped the gym bag at his feet and used his toe to shove it back under the desk, taking careful note of its exact location from the front edge of the furniture. The guards seemed to be enjoying themselves thoroughly with the contents of the box, much to the dismay of the woman at the desk, and Methos let out a pent-up breath in a soft explosion of impatience.

"All right, look," he said brusquely. "You lads enjoy this stuff and dispose of it properly when you're done. Just don't tell anyone you got it from me, because it wasn't mine in the first place." He reached under the desk for the gym bag where Elektra was hiding, wrapped in cushioning blankets, and drew it out while simultaneously giving a shove to the other one so Duncan could reach it again, knowing that the rustling of paper as the guards dug in the box would cover the whisper of nylon fabric sliding across the tiled floor. He straightened and hoisted his bag over his shoulder, confident from the weight that he had gotten the right one, gave the group a quick roll of the eyes in disgust, and stalked out the door into the sunset.

MacLeod clapped Pendergrass on the shoulder a moment later and told him to get back to work with a sympathetic grin, picked up his gym bag and resumed his post by the windows, watching Methos meander across the grounds, slowly making his way toward the rocky shore. He was almost a third of the way there, and Duncan believed he was going to make it. There was a brightly colored sail on the horizon marking a Wataru boat keeping watch, and by the time the escapees made it to the shore, a speed boat would be waiting for them.

He turned back to the desk, intending to tease the guard another few minutes to keep him distracted so he wouldn't glance outside and see where Methos was going, and a broad smile curved his lips as he reached for the magazine the man was holding. Another few minutes and the two Immortals would be home free.

Duncan snatched the magazine, a good-natured jest poised on his lips, when alarm bells sounded, the loudspeakers came alive and all hell broke loose on every floor of the building.

 _"No one may exit the building,"_ said the androgynous loudspeakers. _"Security personnel, pursue any recent departures, and return to exit point. Use of extreme force is acceptable."_

MacLeod dropped his gym bag and raced around the desk, tripping the door guard in his haste to follow Methos, not to bring him back to The Centre, but to protect his back and urge him on. But Methos had heard the klaxon and was sprinting for the shore just as a cigarette boat appeared on the horizon. 

Duncan drew his Centre-issue pistol and thumbed off the safety as he ran, pouring on the speed as he kept watch on the approaching boat and listening for footsteps in his wake. He gauged the distance Methos had to cross and heard Pendergrass and the other guard call out to the escapees to halt as they gave chase. 

 _Almost there!_ Duncan cheered, watching Methos slog out into the evening surf toward the still-approaching boat. 

A shot rang out from behind him, and Methos jerked as a bullet struck home, but he continued to stagger forward, toward rescue. He slung the gym bag off his shoulder and held it in his arms, using his body as a shield against his pursuers. 

Duncan turned and fired behind him, taking barely a second to aim at the nearest of the guards. The man went down in a heap, but the Scot caught a clear view of Pendergrass's face as the young man realized MacLeod was part of the escape attempt. Duncan aimed at his pupil's thigh, seeking to wound rather than kill, and took his shot as he ran on. 

He sprinted harder, closing the gap between himself and the boat when another shot rang out. The shock of impact as the bullet slammed into his shoulder spun him around and he caught himself before he fell, recovering his balance enough to keep his feet. He saw Pendergrass hobbling toward him, pistol braced and ready for another shot. 

"Don't do it, Pendergrass!" MacLeod warned. "Your life isn't worth a paycheck."

The Scot risked a glance over his shoulder at Methos, and saw that the boat had arrived. The gym bag went in quickly, roughly, down into the bottom of the boat, and Methos hoisted a leg over the side to climb in himself. MacLeod turned back to regard Pendergrass, still keeping his pistol trained on the young guard. 

"Can't let you get away," Pendergrass called, panting from the run, wincing with pain from his wounded leg. 

"Mac!" Methos called. "Come on!" 

But MacLeod knew from the look in his pupil's eyes what the outcome of the standoff would be. 

"Go!" Duncan commanded over his shoulder. 

Pendergrass corrected his aim and fired at Methos, dropped to one knee, pointed his pistol at MacLeod and fired again. 

The Highlander expected that and shifted slightly to the right, backing toward the shoreline.

"Don't, Pendergrass!" Mac warned again. He tossed down his pistol and held up his hands to show that he was unarmed, grimacing in pain as his wounded shoulder began to knit. "I'll go quietly." He backed another step toward the water and felt the surf surge up over his shoes. If he could just make it into the water far enough to swim, he would be all right. 

"I've got plans, Mac," said the guard with a smile. And he pulled the trigger.

The bullet slammed into MacLeod's forehead, knocking him backward into the water. Pendergrass hobbled to the water's edge to check the body, taking note of his perfect aim, and scanned the horizon for the sleek black boat that had sped away with Dr. Hosta. He could see the craft retreating at full throttle, but Nicholas wasn't moving. Pendergrass had aimed for the back of his head, and he was certain he had hit his mark. But the boat was far enough away to be out of range, and if he took a shot at the boat or its pilot, it would be wasted effort. Whatever Dr. Hosta had taken was gone, but if someone inside had been quick and called up The Centre's shore patrol, they could get it back again.

He hopped back toward the building, checking on his fallen partner and ascertaining that the other guard's wound was no more serious than his own. But Pendergrass would be able to report to his superiors that both of the offenders were dead. If that level of loyalty and expertise didn't garner the attention of his superiors, then nothing would. He went back inside as other guards began streaming outside to mop up, ready to give his report and get to the Infirmary.

 

 

A handful of guards stood on the rocky shore, glancing down at the body in the water. No one wanted to get their shoes wet, so the trainer's body floated in the shallows, eyes staring sightlessly upward. Someone barked an order and the troops turned in unison, snapping to attention, and in the ensuing moments when management made their demands for details, the floating corpse jerked and gasped as immortality kicked in again. The wound healed, the eyes blinked and the head raised up slightly out of the water. 

No one was looking at him. MacLeod dug his heel into the rocky ground and pushed himself backward in the water, gradually edging farther out until his whole body was floating. Silently, he turned face down in the water, dove beneath the surface, and swam out to sea and the fleet that waited there. It would be an exhausting swim, but as long as no one believed the dead could leave under their own power, The Centre would not be looking for him.

 

 

For hours Jarod lay in the ducts, waiting for the furor to settle down. He tapped in on the reports, reading every detail as it shifted electronically from department to department, and was dismayed that both of his fellow conspirators had been killed. His thoughts turned to the goddess, and he wondered if the fleet would remain off the Delaware coast, or if the Wataru would beat a hasty retreat for parts unknown. He wanted to see Shima again, to say good-bye, but it was probably best that he go on his way alone, without attempting to make the connection again, even briefly. He couldn't achieve his goals living on the _Tiamet_ and even considering staying with her was the same as volunteering to go back to work for The Centre. Living as one of the Wataru, for all the appearance of the freedom they had, was every bit as much of a prison as the one he had escaped from almost a year earlier. Shima and her people helped and supported each other, but the symbiotic relationship was limiting as well. Jarod couldn't live that way. 

Still, Shima still had his DSAs, and he wanted those back. He would have to find a way to get them back from her. And to do that, he would have to anticipate the Wataru's next port of call. 

Jarod programmed a virus into The Centre's mainframe, one specially designed to attach itself to any files containing a reference to the name Elektra, programmed to activate in 3 days' time or if anyone made an attempt to copy the files off the hard drive and/or delete any of the affected files. That task done, he made his way outside through the ducts, climbed out under cover of darkness, and walked away without looking back. 

He drove into the nearest coastal town and purchased a small cabin cruiser, had it loaded with fuel and headed out to sea. Once far enough from shore to be safely out of The Centre's ever widening search pattern, he bedded down for the night and waited until sunup to begin his search for the goddess of the Otter People.

 

 

Methos sat in the rocking chair, humming softly to himself as he waited. The bundle in his arms did not stir, did not inhale, until a great spasm passed through the little body.  A startled, painful breath was drawn, and Elektra shuddered back to life again. Her eyes opened, and she gazed into the face of her only friend. 

"Welcome back," he said softly, with a bittersweet smile. 

"What happened?" she asked, her eyes tearing away from his face to glance quickly about the strange room. 

"We were shot during the escape," he answered truthfully. "We died. But now we're back again." 

"Is that how it works?" Elektra frowned. "That isn't what Beatrix told me."

"That's how it is for _us,"_ Methos explained. "We are Immortal. I will always be like you see me now, never growing any older, never dying, no matter how many times I'm killed. Unless someone separates _this_ from _this_." He indicated his head and body, and then slid his hand back beneath Elektra supportively. "And so it will be with you, too."

"You mean..." Elektra's eyes filled with tears. "I'll always be like this?" 

He took a deep, ragged breath, struggling to hold back his emotions. "Yes, Elektra. Always." He swallowed hard. "Can you guess how old I am?" 

"I have very little concept of time," Elektra responded sadly. "I'm not even sure how old I am." 

"You're fifteen years old," Methos told her. "Beatrix, your caretaker, is about 45 years old." He took a deep breath. "I'm somewhere near... five thousand."

Elektra stared at him for a moment, her fine brows creasing together. "What is the normal lifespan of a human being?" 

"These days, between 70 and 80 years. Greatly improved since the age I was born in." He grinned slightly. "I was actually a fairly old man when I died the first time. For the era.  Remember the bear in the cave?" 

"The first time..." Elektra repeated. "How many..." She blinked, and two large tears rolled across her temples. "Never mind. I don't want to know." 

Methos sighed, understanding. "There are things that we don't often discuss among ourselves," he said softly. "We have common bonds and rules of conduct that all of us obey, but we are few and our origins unclear. Of all the Immortals I have met in my lifetime, only one has known her mother. The rest of us are rootless." Methos smiled warmly at Elektra. "You're just as special as she is, darling. You're her sister."

"What is that?" 

Her innocence touched him deeply, and he explained in detail as he rose from the chair. He carried her out of the stateroom, down a corridor and into a large room filled with books and dominated by a large, ornate globe set on a dais at room center. When he saw Shima, he stopped, shifted the bundle in his arms to turn Elektra so child and woman could regard each other. 

"Shima Wataru, may I present your sister, Elektra. Elektra, this is Shima, goddess of the Otter People for three thousand years." 

Shima crossed the big room gracefully, halting a foot away from them, her face alight with joy. 

"Welcome, sister," she said warmly. Her hands danced at her sides for a moment, uncertain if she should hold them out in welcome, or remain politely neutral and wait for a sign of acceptance from the child. 

Elektra gazed at the woman's face, noting the distinctive shape of her eyes, her pale hair and slender build, and knew instinctively that she would have looked much the same if she had been allowed to grow. The vision that her friend had constructed for her in the virtual realm was startlingly similar, except for the color of her hair and the clothes in which he had dressed her. 

"Nicholas says we had the same mother," Elektra said slowly, her toothless gums preventing her from enunciating clearly. "If I hadn't been killed so early, I would have been like you." She blinked, and tears fell down her cheeks freely. She held out a tiny hand toward the woman's face and Shima came closer, letting Elektra lay her infant's palm against her cheek. 

Shima covered the tiny hand with her own tenderly. "Yes. But you didn't have that chance." 

"What will you do with me?" Elektra asked her. 

"I will keep you here with me and my people, and care for you. We will travel the world, and together we will be safe." 

Elektra withdrew her hand and wilted down into the blankets in Methos' arms. "I don't want to be safe," she said bluntly. "I don't want to be like this forever." 

"You have no choice," said Shima, her voice quivering with emotion as she fought back her own tears. "We can't help you grow after First Death." 

"No. I know that now. But you can help me die. One last time. It would be the greatest kindness you could do for me." 

Shima turned away and covered her face with her hands. "I can't, Elektra." Her shoulders trembled for a moment with silent sobs. "I can't. I had hoped to have a companion with me, someone like me, who could understand..." 

Elektra wriggled in her blankets and Methos laid her down in his arms again, meeting her gentle, yearning gaze. 

"Nicholas?" She waited, watching the indecision, the emotions warring behind his eyes. "You have been my friend, Nicholas..." 

"Methos," he corrected huskily. "The name I was born with was Methos. I've had thousands of other names since then." 

"Free me, Methos!" Elektra begged. Closing her eyes, she continued. "You taught me to fly. Please don't cage me again. It's time for me to finish my journey." She opened her eyes and regarded him with frank hope. 

A warm hand settled on Methos shoulder, and Duncan said softly. "It's the right thing to do, Methos." 

"Are you sure of that?" he snapped, facing the dripping Scot. 

Duncan didn't smile. "I don't have to be." His eyes fell on the tiny face sympathetically. "Elektra is. That's all we need to know. It's her choice.  An end to _her_ pain." 

A cynical retort poised on Methos' lips refused to leap outward, and faded away as he gazed into Elektra's face. He would have wanted the same, if their situations were reversed. He sighed in defeat, and tears welled up in his eyes. 

"All right, love," he whispered, holding her close, burying his face against the blankets. Tiny hands reached out and stroked his cheek, his hair, and she whispered her gratitude in his ear in a small voice filled with unutterable joy. 

The _Tiamet_ headed out to sea, and after hours of traveling, a floating deck was dropped into the water and anchored. The big ship continued on its way for a few more minutes to offer a modicum of privacy to those who would be returning to the deck by dinghy, and as dawn began to lighten the eastern horizon, the small boat pulled up to the platform and discharged two passengers, one tall and dark, the other tiny and wrapped in a blanket against the cool of night.  

Duncan and Shima kept their seats in the dinghy.  They moved the boat away from the platform a respectful distance, cut the motor and waited. 

Methos laid Elektra down on the deck and turned on the battery powered lamp he had brought with him to light his way. From a small medical kit that Shima had insisted on, he withdrew a syringe filled with an overdose of morphine, unwrapped Elektra and sat down with her in his lap on the swaying deck. With a brief apology he injected the fluid into her slender hip, his heart wrenching at her cry of pain from the needle prick. And as the powerful drug began to take effect, he held her close in his arms and sang to her a lullaby that had not been heard for millennia in a language long dead. 

Elektra slipped off into sleep peacefully, and when he felt her tiny heart stutter to a stop and be still, he laid her down on the blanket, pulled a long bladed knife from the medical kit, and fulfilled his promise to her. 

No one spoke during the ride back to the _Tiamet_ or after they arrived on deck and parted company. Each of them returned to their quarters in silence, but by morning all had gathered in the ship's chapel to kneel in grief at the altar. When they rose, Methos shook MacLeod's hand and offered Shima a polite, respectful bow, but she took him in her arms and hugged him in gratitude for his sacrifice and his kindness. 

When she let him go he gazed deeply into her eyes and whispered painfully, "Are we even now?" 

Tears rolled freely down her cheeks, and she shook her head. "No, Methos. We will never be even, not after this. I will be in your debt forever." 

He nodded, turned away, and prepared to depart. 

Jarod stood in the chapel doorway, regarding the trio curiously. 

He stepped aside and allowed Adam Pierson to leave, then took a seat in the last pew near the door. 

"I thank you," said Shima, sniffing back her tears, "for helping us free my sister. I will return your property to you shortly. Will you wait for me in your rooms?" 

He nodded, glancing between Shima and Duncan, contemplation evident on his face. After a moment he left the couple to their private farewell. 

Duncan embraced her fondly, held her in his arms. "What will you do now, Shima?" he asked quietly. "Try to convince Jarod to stay?" 

The goddess sighed wearily. "I'm old, Duncan," she responded bleakly. "My people are few now. It's difficult to keep them together anymore. Living like this is harder for them now than it once was." She pulled out of his embrace and sat down on the nearest pew. "I was thinking of releasing them from their vow to me." 

Shocked surprise flashed across his dark face, but he recovered quickly. "That's a dangerous thing for you to do," he reminded her. "It puts you in the game for the first time. Are you sure you're ready for that?" 

She smiled sadly up at him. "We're all in the game, Duncan," she said softly. "I just took unfair advantage. It's about time I took my chances, the same as any of the rest of you do." A twinkle of mischief sparkled in her eyes. "Besides, as I recall, I had a very good teacher in the art of the sword a few centuries ago." 

He smiled back, a little of his grief lightening somewhat. "Well, I hope you've had others, too. Mine isn't the only style out there, y'know." 

"I'm no slouch, darling," she promised. But her smile faded. "My only problem is that I'm not sure what to do with the Wataru. Most of them will have no problem with their freedom, and will be able to find work easily. But there are a few, like Kohmet and Bikana, who have spent their whole lives serving me, looking after me and keeping my histories. They will be lost without me in their lives. What shall I do with them?" 

A flash of Joe Dawson's grizzled face sped across his consciousness, and he smiled. "I think I know someone who can help you there. And they'll be doing just what they've been trained to do, only with other Immortals." 

"What do you mean?" she asked, curious now, but holding off on getting excited. She didn't want to be disappointed. 

And Duncan MacLeod told her about the Watchers and his friend Joe, who kept bars in the Pacific Northwest and Paris, just so he could tag along with an Immortal Scot in his travels through time and history. 

Shima Wataru was pleased, and together they made plans to introduce the Watchers to the Otter People on the other side of the continent.

 

 

Methos stepped off the yacht in Boston harbor, and made his way off the docks toward the city. After a brief stop at one of his permanent warehouses, he headed for the airport with a case full of books that would help him with his research. He had seen Elektra's mother on the recording and would recognize her face if he saw her again. As he sat in the terminal awaiting the boarding call for his flight home, he took out a pencil and notebook and began to draw her, just to help him remember. It could be a very long time before he ever saw her likeness again, and he wanted to make sure he didn't forget. He wanted to talk to her, to find out where Immortals came from, and he felt sure the woman would know. 

When he finished the first drawing the boarding announcement came over the public address system, and he closed the notebook, grabbed his carry-on bag, and glanced up as he prepared to stand. A woman sat on a chair facing his not four feet away, her green eyes on him as if she was lost in rapt adoration. He felt slightly uncomfortable beneath her gaze even though she was an attractive young woman, twentyish perhaps, with long black hair streaming across her shoulders and a ready smile. 

He gave her a brief, polite smile of disinterest, rose from his seat and strode toward the gate, putting her out of his mind entirely. 

_The woman sat still for another moment, her heart beating painfully in her chest. It had been ages since she had seen him, and she was thrilled to know that he was still in one piece. They had never been introduced; she had seen to that long ago. But when he sat down across from her she had felt the familiar tingling that announced possession, and almost spoke to him. It was taboo, absolutely forbidden once she left him behind, but the desire never went away._

_A tear rolled slowly down her cheek as she glanced at the book in her lap. She would have to take a later flight to avoid sitting on the same plane with him, and the temptation such close proximity would bring. Though he would not be able to detect her presence as she did his, he was nevertheless her son, and she had to keep her distance. It was the cardinal rule that had only been broken once in all of history, by another of The Mothers. She would not be the next._  

Andromeda rose and went to the ticket counter to change her schedule and arrange another flight to the West Coast.

 

 

Jarod watched the man and woman fence, concentrating on balance and skill, amazed by the sheer beauty of the friendly confrontation. When it was over he played it again and again in his mind, pretending to be each of them, learning the dance intimately. They were artists, the like of which he had never seen before, but he also realized that their expertise was the result of centuries of practice. 

He had done a lot of thinking about the things he had seen since meeting these people, and would see the world a little differently now. He did not ask them about their immortality, sensing that it was not a topic for polite discussion, and that they were reluctant to give details of their unusual existence. Shima herself had given him many answers without realizing it, and after seeing Methos and MacLeod on board the _Tiamet,_ after listening to frank discussions of the means of their deaths at The Centre, he knew at once that they were like her. 

It had taken him a while to figure out the mystery of Elektra, not wanting to accept the final conclusion at first, but unable to come up with any reason for the toolbox and doll that Adam had requested, except one. Which also led Jarod unerringly to the next horrifying revelation. He had puzzled over the localized lightning storm at sea during his approach of the _Tiamet_ the night following the rescue, but Joe Dawson had helped him with the answer to that. 

Jarod glanced over at the older man, watching him jot down a few notes on his pad.

"Do you think they'll ever have to fight each other?" he asked Dawson.

Joe shrugged. "I think that, if they were the last two Immortals left, they'd enjoy a very long journey together and front row seats to the end of time." He glanced up at the young man with the computer in his lap, and smiled. "The rules say there can be only One, but Shima never followed the rules, and Mac rarely does what anybody tells him to." 

Jarod smiled politely. "So do you think you can integrate the Wataru into the Watchers without revealing who they are and where they come from?" 

"I think so. Especially if you're as good as you say you are in creating identities that'll pass a background search." Joe gave him a conspiratorial wink. "Lucky they have someone like you working for them. Mac says you're the best."

The two men carried their conversation over to a chess board and soon became so engrossed with the game that they forgot about the fencing match going on across the room. 

Shima stole a glance at her most recent lover and smiled at her former paramour between the clash of steel. "It will be strange to walk on land, after all this time on water," she panted between parries. 

"I'm sure Jarod will be a wonderful guide," Duncan returned with a salvo of quick strikes. "Have you decided on a name yet?" 

"I think I'll use my real one," she answered with a breathy laugh, and stepped back, signaling an end to the match and lowering her blade. "My people won't recognize it anyway." 

"Yes, they will," he shot back with a grin. "You've been 'She Whose Name May Not Be Spoken' and Shima Wataru for a long time, but you've also got one of the most wicked senses of humor of anyone I've ever met. All this time, none of them has been permitted to discover your birth name, and the whole time they use it every time they call your ship. Tiamet, you are priceless." 

She winked at him, and nodded toward the game table. "Should we tell our young friend?" 

"I thought you'd already shared your name with him." 

She shook her head and brushed a lock of pale hair away from her sweaty face. "I meant the _other_ thing." 

MacLeod shook his head. "You saw Jarod studying us. If he finds out he's going to be an Immortal one day, the rest of us won't stand a chance. Let's leave that little secret to Fate." 

The goddess of the Otter People nodded in agreement, shook her teacher's hand, and went to greet her lover, hoping he would come find her after he died. 

 _The First Time._  

FIN


End file.
